


Slick As A Baby Seal

by Faradaze



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brienne Never Stops Blushing, Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, Drama, Embarrassment, F/M, Falling In Love, Fire, First Kiss, First Time Blow Jobs, Fist Fights, Humor, Loss of Virginity, Love Triangles, Makeup Sex, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Kissing, Oral Sex, Original Character Death(s), Pregnancy Scares, Romantic Fluff, Rough Sex, Sansa The Enabler, Self-Discovery, Shame, Slow Burn, Sparring, Threats of Violence, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Violent Anger, Wildlings Do It Better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 16:52:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 48
Words: 121,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7540495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faradaze/pseuds/Faradaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tormund is in love/lust.  Brienne is repulsed, then intrigued.  The story begins shortly after Brienne arrives at Castle Black.  This is my interpretation and expansion of the greatest ship that ever was.  Spoilers for GoT season 6, canon divergent as of season 7.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> Would Brienne really be that confrontational? I'm not sure. But Tormund sure liked it. ;)  
> More chapters coming soon! Comments & critiques appreciated! This is the first time I have posted on AO3.

Standing in the muddy courtyard of Castle Black, if it could actually be called a courtyard, Brienne stared up at the 700 foot ice wall. She had to lean back and squint her eyes in an unsuccessful attempt to see the top. It made her feel dizzy just looking up at it. The wall was rather oppressive, leaning over Castle Black, a constant reminder of the threat on the other side. But she was in awe of it, unable to fathom how it had actually been built thousands of years ago. She had been taught the history of the wall by her father, but the stories she had been told did not do it justice.

It was nearing dusk and with Sansa busy reuniting with Jon, Brienne had little to do but stare up at the wall and contemplate how she had ended up in Castle Black of all places. Tarth seemed so far away.

She was lost in her own thoughts when she heard the shuffling of feet next to her. Turning her head to the sound, Brienne was supremely displeased to see the bearded wildling fellow standing a few feet from her. She wondered how long he had been there, staring at her with that dopey grin on his face. Brienne gritted her teeth, her hand reflexively moving to rest on Oathkeeper. What did he want? He had done nothing but stare at her since she had arrived at Castle Black. It made her exceedingly uncomfortable. Why did he stare? Did they not have wildling women that were her size? No, that was impossible! There were bloody giants beyond the wall! Was it because she was dressed like a man? No, that couldn't be it. From what she had seen of the wildlings, the men and women dressed nearly identical. She didn’t know why he stared at her like that. But she knew she didn’t like it. She knew his stare caused the color to rise in her cheeks and her stomach to flip flop annoyingly. She _really_ didn’t like it.

“Yes?” Brienne growled, making no attempt to hide her annoyance.

If he was put off by her coarseness, he didn’t show it. He seemed pleased that she was even speaking to him. “ I saw you lookin’ at the wall,” he said matter of factly. His voice was a deep baritone, marked by an accent she had never heard before. “It’s tall. Like you.”

Wow. The wildling’s ability to perceive the obvious was astounding, Brienne thought sarcastically. Her response was a wordless grunt and nothing more. She turned her eyes back to the wall, regretting her decision to talk to him in the first place and hoping that she could just ignore him and he would go away. But that didn’t seem likely.

“I could take you to the top,” he offered, taking a step toward her. “The view from up there is like nothing you’ve ever seen before. It’s fucking amazing.” There was an overt earnestness to his voice. He badly wanted to show her the wall.

And it was mildly enticing, though his eagerness made her somewhat suspicious. She wanted to see what it was like to be so high up there on the wall. She did not particularly want him to be the one to show her but he was here. And he was offering. Brienne was not someone that let an aggravating man get in the way of what she wanted and what she wanted right now was to scale that wall.

“Alright,” Brienne replied, begrudgingly. The wildling looked ecstatic at her response. He didn’t seem to hide any of his emotions. It was all right there, plain as day, on his bearded face. How bizarre. How different he was compared to most people she knew.

“Come on,” he said, gesturing for her to follow him. She did, walking two steps behind him without a word, her hand resting on Oathkeeper. The wildling led her across the courtyard and up some stairs until they were standing in front of the lift. He pulled open the heavy door easily and turned back to grin at her. Brienne eyed the lift apprehensively. It didn’t appear to be the most sturdy of contraptions and they were going 700 feet in the air. Much to her chagrin, the wildling noticed her hesitation.

“It’s alright,” he spoke amiably. “Nothing will happen to you. I promise.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively as he continued, “And if you get really scared, you can grab on tight to me.”

His flirting did nothing but annoy her further. And in her anger, she forgot her fear. Brienne marched confidently into the lift, turning around and facing back to the wildling, her arms crossed defiantly over her chest. “I am not scared,” she snapped as she narrowed her eyes at him. If looks could kill, he would be dead and buried ten times over.

The wildling’s only response to her was to chuckle heartily. He signaled to one of the Brothers of the Watch to activate the lift and then moved to stand beside her. He pulled the door shut with a bang and they started to ascend.

Brienne felt her stomach drop as they began to move. Her whole body tensed and she reached out a hand to steady herself. It was disconcerting how swiftly they were moving. It was equally disconcerting to be stuck in a tiny wooden box with a large wildling man that was doing nothing but gazing stupidly at her again. She heard him sigh and she could do nothing but frown in response. Perhaps she had made a mistake.

But, in the next moment, the lift came to a shuddering halt. They were at the top of the wall. Brienne could hear the wind whipping over them. It was colder up here too and she could feel the heat being zapped from her body. The wildling pulled open the door and this time he didn’t wait for her to go first. He stepped out on to the icy top of the wall and turned back to her. The red-haired man gestured for her to follow. She purposefully avoided looking at him and strode past. She only walked a few steps, however, before she was stopped in her tracks. He was not lying about the view. It was breathtaking. The land beyond the wall was covered in thick snow, jagged black mountains rising in the distance. It stretched on and on, as far as her eyes could see in the fading light. She moved closer to the edge of the wall and made the mistake of leaning over to look down the sheer icy face.

The vertigo hit her forcefully and she gasped. She hastily stepped back, only to have her boot slip on the ice beneath her. The sensation was terrifying. There was nothing but slippery ice between her and an horrific plunge to her death. Her pulse instantly began pounding in her ears. Brienne scrambled back from the edge of the wall in a sheer panic. She run smack into the wildling and let out a yelp as they both stumbled on the ice.

He had not been expecting her fear to propel her so quickly back from the edge. But he acted equally quickly to regain his footing before grabbing her shoulders to steady her. She responded by clutching the furs on his forearms, her eyes wide and her breath ragged. He was shorter than her, but not by much. And his arms were strong.

There was no judgement in his eyes as he watched her slowly regain her composure. He did not rub in the fact that she was scared and was indeed grabbing on to him, just as he teased her about before. In his eyes, there was truly nothing but empathy.

“Everyone acts like that the first time on the wall,” he explained. “I remember the first time I climbed it, I was about half up and made the mistake of looking down.” The wildling shook his head at the memory. “I nearly pissed myself. It took me longer than I’d like to admit before I could start climbing again.”

It was the most he had ever said to her. Brienne stared at the wildling, still unabashedly clutching his furs in her fists as she waited for the shakiness of her legs to subsist. He didn’t seem to mind. And she was too frazzled to be ashamed. She did not know how to respond to him. She could only sputter in disbelief, “Climbing?”  Was it really possible that this wildling had climbed the wall? All 700 feet of it? How?

“Aye,” he said with a cocky smile. “I’ve climbed it too many times to count. It takes quite a bit of strength… and stamina.” The wildling winked at her.

Brienne did nothing but stare at him, her lips twisted in a frown. She began to feel foolish for reacting so fearfully to merely looking over the wall’s edge. And she regretted holding on to him. Roughly, she released her grip on him and stepped back. Her eyes were on the ground, making sure she didn’t slip again. She did not know what to say. This wildling fellow was somehow not what she had expected. She felt… discombobulated.

“Look!” he said abruptly. “You’re missing it.” Brienne raised her eyes to see that he was facing the other direction now, looking back over the lands of the North. She turned to follow his gaze and was once again speechless by the view. The sun was setting and the sky was filled with streaks of pinks, oranges, and yellows. The puffs of clouds looked as though they were on fire. The North, as far as she could see, was bathed in a fading golden light. The snow seemed to sparkle and glow.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed as she watched the sun slowly slip away and the radiant colors fade.

“Aye,” he murmured in response. When she glanced over at him, he was not looking at the disappearing sunlight. He was looking at her.

Ugh. Her response now was an exaggerated eye roll and an angry exhale. Surely someone had put this wildling fool up to this. It was some sort of cruel joke or wager, just like when she had joined Renly’s army and the knights had connived to claim her maidenhead. That had hurt her. But this did not. This, whatever this wildling was doing, was asinine.

Her lips in a grim line, Brienne made her way past the wildling and back to the lift. She had had enough of this. And with the loss of the sun, the temperature was dropping rapidly. She waited silently in the lift until he joined her there. She said not a word to him. Staring straight ahead, she heard him shut the door behind her and shout for the lift to be lowered. It creaked loudly as it began to descend.

In the cramped lift, Brienne turned on the wildling. There was anger burning in her eyes and she gripped Oathkeeper tightly in her hand. She moved toward him, invading his space, and using her height to her advantage in an attempt to intimidate him. He stared up at her, looking confused, and something else… Thrilled? Enchanted? Insane? He did not seem to mind that she had nearly eliminated the space between them.

“What’s your game, wildling?” she spat.

“Game?” he asked, not a hint of intimidation in his eyes. Instead he looked as though he was thoroughly enjoying himself, his eyes darting to her lips before meeting her eyes again. It angered Brienne further. “I ain't playing no game,” he drawled.

“I’ve had enough of your looks, and your sighs, and your _disgusting_ way of eating meat,” she growled. “Stop. It. Now.” Venom seeped from her every word.

“And if I don’t?” he replied, his voice low as he held her gaze.

The lift came to a shuddering halt on the ground. Neither of them moved.

“You’ll regret it,” she threatened, before turning and heaving the door open. She stalked away without another word.

Brienne did not see the sly smile that crept on the wildling’s face.


	2. chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized after I wrote this that Brienne definitely has gloves and would have been wearing them. Oh well. Maybe Tormund stole them just so he could touch her hand? LOL. More chapters coming soon! Comments & critiques are always appreciated!

The following night, Brienne was on watch.  She had little to do at Castle Black and had offered to take a shift guarding the gates to the castle. They had resisted her at first, but the truth was that the men of the Night’s Watch were stretched thin and they needed any help they could get.  So they had agreed to let her take a turn on watch.  Unfortunately, the shift they gave her was smack dab in the middle of the night.

It wouldn’t have been too terrible, with the full moon high in the clear sky, except that it was bitterly cold.  Growing up on Tarth, Brienne had never experienced such cold.  Exposed to the wind on the platform above the gate, every ounce of heat quickly left her body.  Her gambeson and armor weren’t made for temperatures this low.  Within an hour, her teeth were chattering.  Two hours later, shivers racked up and down her body.  By hour three, her body felt stiff from the cold and she could barely feel her feet or fingers.  She had to stamp her feet and rub her hands together in an attempt to regain feeling.  Yet still she remained at her post, steadfast and determined.  She could endure this.  She had endured worse.  And soon someone would come to relieve her.

Staring out into the frozen night, Brienne did her best to stay warm.  She imagined the hottest summer day of her youth.  A day when the heat had been so overbearing, it had been a chore to strip off her clothes and dive into the sapphire waters.  Closing her eyes, she remembered the way the cool water had kissed her hot skin.  It had been one of the happiest moments of her young life, just her and the sun and the waves and the way she had felt almost beautiful just splashing and diving and swimming in the pristine waters.

“That’s an interesting way to guard the gate,” a deep voice rumbled to her right and Brienne’s eyes flew open in surprise.  It was the bearded wildling fellow and he was standing a few feet from her, leaning against the wooden railing, and  _ chuckling _ at her. Instantly, anger flared within her.  “Is that how they do it in the South? No wonder you kneelers keep fighting back and forth over the same chunk of land.” 

Brienne said nothing, her eyes only narrowing at him, before turning her attention back to look out into the night.  How had he managed to sneak up on her when she had only closed her eyes for a second? She was aggravated that he was here.  He had not bothered her since she had threatened him yesterday, in part because she had pointedly avoided him.  And when they had had to be in the same room, she had refused to even look at him.

“Are you here to relieve me?” she snapped, trying and failing to stop a shiver from shaking through her body.

“No,” he said quietly, watching her tremble in the cold.  “Couldn’t sleep. It helps to walk around, try to clear my head.  And this helps too,” he added with a grin, holding up a waterskin before taking a drink of whatever was in it.  He offered it to her with an outstretched arm and a friendly nod.

She shook her head in refusal, utterly disappointed that her watch was not yet over.

“It’ll warm you up,” he insisted, taking another step toward her, his hand still holding the waterskin out to her.

Brienne scowled at him for a moment, before grabbing the waterskin and bringing it to her lips.  She took a long, defiant swig.  The rancid taste of the liquid hit her with such force that she nearly choked.  Sputtering and coughing, she glared at him.

“Terrible, isn’t it?” he laughed, “but it’s stronger than any piss ale they make here.”  He was right.  Brienne could feel the heat of it spreading in her stomach.  It was strong.  And it made her feel bold.  She took another drink, grimacing, before she thrust the waterskin back at him.

He seemed surprised she had taken a second drink, his eyebrows raising for a moment.  Then he stepped forward to take the waterskin back from her. 

Looking at her intently now that they were standing rather close to each other, he abruptly muttered, “Fuck.  Your lips are blue.”

She shrugged, feeling less cold from whatever he had given her to drink.  And honestly, she was so frozen, she just felt numb now. 

“You should go,” he pressed, concern creeping into his voice.  “I’ll cover the rest of your watch.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, even though the chattering of her teeth distorted her words.  She wasn’t going to let the wildling do her a favor.  She did not want to be in debt to him.

She saw him grit his teeth.  Why did he care so much?  It would almost be amusing if it wasn’t so annoying.  With mild curiosity, she watched him stick the waterskin in his belt and then begin to undo the fasteners that held the heavy furs around his chest.  Removing the thick fur cloak from his shoulders, he moved toward her.  Brienne stepped back, her hand reaching to Oathkeeper.

“Bloody woman!” he swore, though he sounded more perplexed than angry.  “It’s not a fucking trap.” 

She stared at him and he at her for what seemed like a small eternity.  She didn’t trust him and it showed on her face.  He looked at her with prying eyes, his desire to help her blatant on his face.  Eventually, she nodded.  His kindness was baffling to her.  It made her leery of him.  But his furs looked damn warm.

He stepped forward swiftly, using his brawny arms to sweep the furs around her shoulders. He pulled it snugly around her, his hands grasping the cloak at her waist to keep it tight around her.  The furs were weighty on her shoulders, but oh so cozy.  A murmur of appreciation escaped from her lips before she could censor herself.

He beamed at the sound she made,  _ that look _ creeping back into his eyes.  Brienne frowned, lifting her hands up to push his hands off of her.  When her skin touched his, he winced.  “Your hands are like ice,” he grumbled, catching her hands in his and bringing them to his lips.  His beard brushed against her hands as he blew softly on her fingers, using the hot air from his mouth to warm them.  Brienne gasped when she felt the warmth of his breath caress her fingers.  As he blew, he gazed up at her with sheer reverence in his eyes.   She meant to pull away, but the look in his eyes made her pause.  Maybe it was the alcohol in her belly or maybe she had gone mad from the cold, but his gaze didn’t bother her as much in that moment.  In fact, it made her feel, just for a second, like she was a woman that was worthy of such adoration.

She was such a fool.  Shaking her head to clear her mind of such stupid thoughts, she yanked her hands away from him.  He seemed disappointed when she pulled away.  Brienne stepped back to the widen the distance between them before turning away from him to resume her watch.  She silently prayed he would leave her be.

“It’s your armor,” the wildling stated after a long moment, answering a question she had not asked.  “It’s why you’re so cold.  You’d never see any of us free folk in metal armor, not ‘cause we can’t smith, but ‘cause it’s like strapping two blocks of ice to your chest.  Even the crows are smart enough to use leather armor.”

Resenting the insinuation that somehow she was not smart enough to realize that her armor was not ideal for this weather, she turned to glare at him.  He just smiled back at her.

“It’s fine looking armor though,” he admitted, his eyes lazily traveling the length of her body.  “It fits you perfectly.”

Heat rose to her cheeks in a combination of embarrassment and indignation.  “This armor was a gift,” she snarled. “As was this,” Brienne said as she gripped the hilt of Oathkeeper menacingly.  “Careful,  _ wildling, _ or you will get to see my blade up close.”

Her threat seemed to have the opposite effect on him.  He looked positively enthralled by her.  What was wrong with him?

“Aye,” he murmured in his husky voice.  “Is that a promise?”

Brienne looked away from him again, feeling completely flabbergasted, the flush never leaving her skin.  Why did her threats to fight him only seem to egg him on further?  And why did he seem so… so…  _ infatuated _ with her?

“My name is Tormund, by the way.  Tormund Giantsbane,” he added.  Brienne said nothing.  He continued, his voice gruff with fervor, “And anytime you want to go sword to sword with me, woman, I’ll be ready… and  _ eager. _ ”

What an utterly ridiculous thing to say!  Apparently he wanted to fight her.  He seemed elated at the thought of it.  Brienne did not understand this crazy wildling man standing in front of her.

Regardless, Brienne couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to take him on.  He was big, sure, but not as big as the Hound.  How wonderful would it be to best him? To wipe that stupid look off his face?  It was an enticing prospect.  

“Well  _ my _ name isn’t woman,” she retorted, the edge never leaving her voice.  “It’s Brienne of-”

“Tarth,”  Tormund said, interrupting her.  “I know your name.”

“Well then use it!” she exclaimed, exasperated, all the while wondering if she should feel flattered or irritated that he had made the effort to learn her name.

He laughed loudly. “Alright, I will,” he said, before using his baritone voice to purr her name like it was the most beautiful word he had ever had the honor of saying in his entire life.  “Brienne…”

His voice left her feeling unnerved.  Why was he saying it like that?  She did not know what to say.  She did not know what to think.

As luck would have it, she didn’t have to do anything for one of the men of the Night’s Watch appeared to relieve her from her watch duty.  She was grateful and left as quickly as she could, taking the steps down from above the gate as hastily as possible.  She marched through the courtyard heading straight to the quarters she had been assigned to, her mind focused singularly on stripping off her cold armor, burying herself in every blanket and fur she could find, and forgetting the unsettling events of the evening.

That’s why she didn’t notice him right away.  

Tormund was following her.  He was making no attempt to hide it.   Was there no end to the lengths he would go to aggravate her?  She gritted her teeth in fury.  Brienne whirled around on him, ready to remove Oathkeeper in a second from its sheath if need be.  Tormund stopped in his tracks.

“Why do you insist upon testing my patience? Do you have a death wish?” she snarled, making no attempt to hide her anger.

“What?” Tormund asked, blinking, looking utterly bewildered by her.

“Why are you following me?” she growled accusingly.  The wildling looked at her for a moment, clearly baffled, before tilting his head back and letting a booming laugh erupt from his bearded mouth.   Brienne frowned at his bizarre reaction.

“I’m not following you,” he said with a chuckle, pointing to the building beyond her.  “I think we're going to the same place.”

Brienne looked to where his finger was pointing and then back at Tormund, before looking away sheepishly.  “Oh,” she muttered.  She felt somewhat ashamed that she had automatically jumped to the worst possible conclusion of him.  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“It’s alright,” Tormund said good-naturedly.  “Following after someone and trying to persuade them to let me in their bed  _ is _ something I would do.” He walked past her, giving her another one of his devilish winks, before continuing on toward the building where they both apparently had been given rooms.  “Good night, Brienne.” he purred as he opened the door and disappeared inside. 

Brienne sighed, hesitant to follow him.  But the shiver that traveled down her spine propelled her to enter the building.  The hallway was dimly lit but she could see Tormund enter one of the rooms at the end of the hall. She turned and walked toward her own quarters, entering quickly and shoving the door shut behind her.  She stepped away from the door but watched it nervously, half-expecting Tormund to bust in at any second. After a long moment, in which Brienne realized how absurd she was being, a dry laugh escaped from her lips.  That wildling fellow had completed shaken her, in more ways than one.

Taking a slow breath to calm herself, Brienne shrugged off Tormund’s thick furs and tossed them on the bed.  Her body felt instantly colder at the loss of them.  She fumbled to remove her belt, boots, and bracers, her numb fingers making the tasks difficult.  When it came to removing her pauldrons, it was all but impossible.  Her fingers would not cooperate and her shoulders were stiff from the cold.  Her frustration grew until she let out an angry grunt and threw her hands in the air.  Brienne dropped down on the edge of her bed, her face in her hands, and contemplated her options.  She could sleep in her armor.  She had done it many times before.  But the thought of having to sleep the rest of the night sandwiched between the frigid pieces of metal made her whimper.  She just wanted to be warm!  She could wake up Pod, though that seemed rather cruel considering it was the middle of the night.

Brienne tried again to grasp the straps on her shoulder to untie them.  It was fully pointless.  Even if she could get the pauldrons off, it would be even more difficult to unfasten the buckles on her sides to remove her cuirass.  Brienne groaned.

She knew how she could solve her problem but she didn’t want to admit it.  Right down the hallway there was someone that was still awake and would likely be  _ more _ than willing to help her remove her armor.  That is, if Brienne could swallow her pride enough to ask for help.

She sat quietly in the dark, growing more and more cold with each passing moment.  She did not want to give Tormund the satisfaction of helping her  _ again. _ Brienne reached over and buried her fingers in the soft warm furs of his cloak.  But wasn’t it more foolish not to ask for help? she asked herself.  To sit here in the cold all because she was afraid to…  Brienne shook her head, mentally correcting herself.   She wasn’t afraid.  She was not intimidated at all by the thought of letting him remove her armor, letting him put his hands on her…  Brienne gulped.  

Alright, she was a little intimidated.  All the more reason to do it then!  To prove to herself that she could be stoically impervious to the crazy and confusing antics of the red-headed wildling fellow. 

Brienne stood, steeling herself against what was very much going to be a battle.  She flung open her door and walked confidently down the hall.

This was a battle she was definitely going to win.


	3. chapter three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tormund removes Brienne's armor. Brienne has... feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments & critiques always appreciated! I probably won't update again until Monday.

Taking one last deep breath to steady herself, Brienne slowly raised her fist to to knock loudly on the wooden door.  She heard a rustling on the other side before it swung open. And there was Tormund, standing in the dim lantern light, looking surprised, but delighted, to see her.  The lusty smile that appeared on his lips almost made her turn and flee on the spot.

He leaned against the door frame casually and asked, “How can I help you, my lady?”

Standing up straight, she swallowed hard before replying in the most proper of voices, “I am inquiring whether you would be amenable to assisting me in removing my armor.  My squire is asleep and I am presently incapable of doing so independently.” Brienne paused, keeping her face completely deadpan, before adding stiffly, “I would be sincerely grateful for your aidance.”  

Tormund just looked at her, his brow furrowed.  He reached up to tug absently on the thick copper hairs on his chin.  “Whatcha going on about?” he asked, his eyes vacant of understanding.

Brienne sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly.  “I need help,” she admitted, dropping the pretense from her voice.  She lifted her right hand to tug on the stubborn straps over her left shoulder.  “I just can’t get the bloody thing untied!” she swore, her exasperation evident.

“Well, why didn’t you just say that?” Tormund asked, his hearty laugh filling the quiet hallway.  There was such warm humor in his eyes.  Brienne doubted she had ever met someone as boisterous and happy as he was.

“Don’t laugh at me,” she grumbled, though she could feel the corners of her mouth pulling up in response to his contagious laughter.  She _was_ being rather ridiculous.  But Brienne forced her lips to remain in a grim line.  To laugh would be to lose.

“Come in,” Tormund said cheerily, stepping back into his quarters.  He gestured for her to have a seat on one of the two wooden chairs in the small room.  Hesitating for only a millisecond, Brienne strode into his room and quickly took a seat. It would be easier for him to help remove her armor if she was seated.

He started to close the door and Brienne let out a wordless sound of protest.  Tormund turned to look at her as she stated bluntly, “I would prefer it if you left it open.”  

He shrugged and left the door ajar. “I’m not going to bite,” Tormund teased as he walked over to stand beside where she was sitting.  “Unless you want me to,” he whispered salaciously in her ear.

Brienne glared up at him, her nostrils flaring.  She moved to stand.  She would rather freeze to death in her armor then listen to such filth. His hand, firm on her shoulder, stopped her.  “I’m sorry,” he said, giving her a regretful look.  “Let me help you,” he implored her.

She was taken aback by his apology.  It was certainly unexpected.  Eventually, she nodded sternly and sat back in the chair.  He nodded back, relieved she had decided to stay, before he got to work untying the straps at her shoulder.  Brienne stared straight ahead, not looking at him, even though his face was a mere foot from her own. Within seconds, he was pulling the left pauldron off her shoulder. He laid it carefully on his bed before moving around to her other shoulder.  Soon the right pauldron was off and Brienne moaned happily, closing her eyes and rolling her shoulders luxuriously now that they were no longer confined by the cold metal.  It felt _so_ good.

Opening her eyes, Brienne glanced absently up at Tormund.  He was standing beside her, one pauldron in hand and his jaw slack, gazing at her like he had never seen a creature as marvelous as her.  Brienne’s shoulders stiffened, the feeling of relaxation gone from them in an instant. She could feel the heat creep up her neck and stain her cheeks a ruddy hue.  Damn him.

Tormund was the one that looked away this time, moving slowly to place the pauldron on his bed beside the other one.  She saw him take a deep breath.  When he turned back around, his face looked rather pained.  He glanced at her briefly before looking quickly away.  He seemed tense.

“Alright then,” he said, deliberately, “How do I help you with the rest of it?”  He gestured haltingly at her cuirass, still avoiding her eyes.

Brienne was confused.  Why was he acting so weird?  She was the one that was embarrassed! His mood change was abrupt. She sat there chewing on her lip for a moment before the realization hit her like a smack to the face.  He was trying his best to be polite, to be considerate, to _not_ upset her.  Tormund had understood that she didn’t like his lurid looks and raunchiness and so he was actively trying to restrain himself.  He wasn’t very good at hiding the hunger in his eyes, but he did seem to be trying none the less.  

Gods!  This was worse than the flirting.  It meant, _oh hell,_ it meant that he actually cared for her in some way and wanted to put her comfort above his own.

Goddammit.

Shit.

Fuck.

This wasn’t a battle of wits that she could win anymore.  This was something else.  This was something new.

Brienne was speechless.

Tormund cleared his throat awkwardly.

Not knowing what else to do, she stood up numbly and pointed to the buckles on her sides that held the cuirass together.  He walked slowly to her. She avoided eye contact with him and raised her arm so he could access the clasp. She felt her pulse begin to pound as he reached out to loosen the strap on her left side.  He was so close to her.  She could hear his breathing, feel his warm breath on her neck.  His fingers brushed against her waist as he unbuckled the straps and even through the thick gambeson, she felt herself shiver in response to him.  As she looked down at him, Brienne realized she was holding her breath.  She let herself exhale shakily, trying to hide how affected she was by him all of a sudden.  What was wrong with her?

Finished with one side, he moved to unbuckle the other.   She turned her head away from him and raised her other arm.  She did not watch this time as his fingers deftly unfastened the remaining buckles.  

Tormund did not step away from her when he was done, but remained standing in front of her, inches from her, too close to her...  

He raised his eyes to look in hers and Brienne felt dizzy, a heat growing in the pit of her stomach at the intensity she saw in his eyes.  He was looking at her like he wanted to remove more than just her armor.  And instead of anger, she felt something else now.  She felt curious. She felt _aroused._  And that made her feel terrified.  

Now that the sides of the cuirass were undone, it wasn’t difficult for Brienne to pull it over her head and wriggle of it.  She stepped back from him and did so hastily, before holding the armor to her chest as a sort of shield between them.

“Thank you, Tormund,” she spoke, her voice sounding choked.  It was the first time she had said his name and he seemed to like it, a grin spreading slowly on his lips.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, waiting a beat before murmuring her name.   “Brienne...”

Damn.  

She needed to get out of there.  And fast.

She could feel the blush burning in her cheeks and her blood pounding in her ears.  Hastily, she grabbed her pauldrons off his bed and started for the door.  He stepped aside with a chuckle as she barreled past him and fled from his room.

“Goodnight, my lady,” she heard him call after her, the amusement at her abrupt departure evident in his voice.  He had no doubt see her blush and Brienne feared that her desire was as blatant on her face as it was on his.

Brienne pushed open the door to her room and closed it behind her, slumping back against it.  She took a harried breath.  She felt all sorts of confused.  After dumping her armor on the small table beside the door, she pulled the gambeson roughly off and tossed it on top of her armor. Brienne walked to the bed,  not bothering to remove her undershirt, pants, or small clothes. She pulled the blankets back and sank onto the lumpy mattress.  It wasn’t the most comfortable of beds, but it beat sleeping on the ground.  Brienne laid down, pulling the blankets, and Tormund’s fur cloak, around her.

It was _so_ warm.  

Brienne burrowed beneath the heavy fur cloak, curling on to her side and pulling her knees to her chest.  Closing her eyes and breathing deeply in an attempt to calm herself, she couldn’t help but inhale the scent of Tormund’s cloak.  It smelled like fire and smoke. Fresh earth and snow.  And a strong musky smell she couldn’t identify… until she realized it was Tormund himself.  She breathed him in.  His scent was overwhelming, intoxicating even.  Brienne willed herself to clear her mind and sleep, but found it impossible.  She was too flustered.

She could not forgot the events of the evening.

Brienne brought her hands to her lips and blew on them, just as Tormund had, re-living the feeling of his hot breath on her finger tips.  She could not get the way he looked at her out of her mind.  It was as though he thought the sun set and rose only for her.  Brienne felt the warmness beginning to spread in her lower belly.  She could not forgot the way his eyes seem to drink her in.  It was as though he wanted to devour her and yet be devoured by her as well.  The desire that shone in his eyes, it was like nothing she had ever seen before.

Those eyes…

Never had a man looked at her like that. Brienne pressed her legs together, trying to rid herself of the ache that was growing between them.

Those eyes…

She couldn’t think of anything else.  She rolled on her back, and slid one hand down her stomach and between her legs.  The wetness she found there caused her to gasp.  But she sought to relieve the throbbing need in her body, her fingers seeking the tiny button of exquisite pleasure. Despite being a maid, Brienne was no stranger to the ecstasy of her own body.

As her fingers deliciously stroked circles on the sensitive bundle of nerves, her other hand moved to squeeze her modest breast. She rolled her hardened nipple between her thumb and forefinger.  Eyes pressed closed, Brienne bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out.  

Oh those eyes…

She let herself imagine what it would it be like to have him here, tangled in the furs with her, touching her, caressing her, just as she did to herself. Oh what would his lips feel like on her own? Would he be rough? Gentle? Would his beard tickle her skin as he brushed kisses down her body? Would he look at her with _those eyes,_ drowning in lust, as he pushed himself inside of her? She couldn’t help but let a low moan escape her lips. Her fingers moved faster, urgently, bringing her closer and closer to the moment of release.

Brienne felt her body begin to tremble as her breath escaped her lips in gasps.  She rolled over on to her stomach, one hand curling into a fist in the furs.  She ground her hips into her other hand, the pleasure she was giving herself reaching higher and higher.  Until it reached a point that was so intense, it was almost painful, and she felt the wave of pleasure crashing down around her.   She had to press Tormund’s cloak to her mouth to silence the cry of pleasure that tore from her throat.  Her body convulsed and she felt herself clenching and unclenching around nothing.

Still shaking slightly, she collapsed on the bed, eyes closed and body slack.  Her mind was exquisitely blank: no worries, no fears.  

She fell asleep easily now, tangled in Tormund’s cloak and engulfed in his scent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I think that Brienne is afraid of intimacy, both physical and mental. She has been mocked her entire life for how she looks and is deeply insecure. And the only times she has ever been close to sex was when men were trying to rape her. 
> 
> I also think that is she is terrified of her own desire. She can't control it. She doesn't trust herself or Tormund. That is not to say that she won't ever, it's just going to take time.
> 
> Basically, I just want all you readers to know that this is going to be the slowest of burns. So buckle up for a fun ride! :)


	4. chapter four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Tormund spar. No one wins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based the training on German Medieval sword fighting. Hopefully it makes sense!  
> More chapters coming soon! Comments & critiques appreciated!

Brienne woke from a fitful night’s sleep just as the light began to break at dawn.  She had dreamt of a big lumbering bear with fur the color of fire that had tracked her every move.  It had chased her through a dense woods, seeking to consume her.  No matter how long and hard she ran, the moment she looked over her shoulder, there it was, right behind her, trapping her in its gaze.  It would lick its chops and a boorish growl would erupt from its muzzle.  Then she would turn and run again, the chase starting all over again. It was an unsettling dream, to say the least, and she woke exhausted. Laying on her back, a light sheen of sweat on her forehead, Brienne reached to touch the raised jagged scars on her neck.

It didn’t help that the moment she awoke, she was wrapped in Tormund’s fur cloak and utterly drown in his heavy scent.  It was _on_ her now. And yes, it was lusciously warm beneath his furs, and she was thankful for his kindness.  But in the harsh light of day, what had been enticing the night before now seemed troubling.  It was no longer altogether pleasant to be so surrounded by him.

Recalling the events of the night before, she silently chastised herself for her foolish fantasies.  How had she let herself think of Tormund while she touched herself?  Was she so easily swayed by just the look of a man?  Shame burned inside of her.

Brienne pushed herself up on her elbow and shoved his heavy fur cloak away, a grimace on her lips.  The cold morning air hit her barely clothed body and she gasped, goosebumps rising on her freckled flesh.  Climbing from the bed, she dressed quickly in her gambeson and shoved her feet into her boots.  She decided to forgo her armor for now.  Just the thought of the cold metal strapped to her body made her shiver.  Would she ever get used to the weather of the north?  How would she fare if winter came?  She could hardly imagine it being colder than it already was.

Gathering up Tormund’s heavy cloak in her arms, she decided the way to make things right in her mind would be to return his cloak to him. She would thank him.  She would be curt but polite.  She would show him in no uncertain terms that she was not and would not be affected by him. And then she would put him out of her head, she assured herself. She was above such baseless human urges.  Brienne nodded to herself, resolute in her plan.  Although she hesitated before leaving her room, steeling herself against what she imagined to be the arduous task ahead.

Upon exiting her room, she did not walk toward Tormund’s quarters.  Instead, she left the building and went to find Podrick.  After some searching, she found him in the stables tending to their horses.  He raised an eyebrow at the wildling furs in her hands, but did not comment. They made their way to the hall at Castle Black, ate a breakfast of bland porridge, and then returned to the yard for Pod’s morning training.  Brienne had seen no sight of Tormund and had no opportunity to rid herself of his furs. She tossed his cloak over a nearby hitching rail and slid Oathkeeper from its sheath.  She turned to Pod, a smile coming to her lips as she delighted in the familiar weight of her sword in her hands.  Though she had initially resisted Podrick as her squire, she had come to look forward to training him and had developed a real affection for the boy.

“Show me roof stance,” she commanded.

The squire was quick to obey, moving his feet a shoulder’s width apart and bending his knees slightly.  Pod raised his sword up so the tip was pointing towards the sky, his elbows out and both his hands tight on the grip.  Brienne watched him closely.

“You’re leaning too far forward.  Keep your weight centered,” she remarked.  He was swift to comply with her correction.  She circled him slowly, watching his footwork as he rotated with her.

“Your passing step is improving,” she commented, to which Pod nodding enthusiastically.  He was eager for her praise for it had been slow in coming.  Podrick was not the quickest of learners but what he lacked in natural ability, he made up in stubborn determination.

“Plow guard,” Brienne said simply and her squire moved to the position, bringing the pommel below his waist and pointing the tip of the sword forward and up.  “Relax your shoulders,” she directed.  “A tense muscle is slow to respond.”

She circled him the other way, watching as he passed his sword in front of him and shifted his weight to his other foot.  “Good,” she said.

“Ox guard,” Brienne said next.  She had ran him through these these drills a thousand times, making him practice the stances over and over until he got them right.  Podrick swiftly lifted the sword to the side and slightly above his head, the blade parallel to the ground.  Brienne paused for a moment, making sure he was ready, before charging him with a swinging undercut.  She saw the fear flash in his eyes as he slammed his sword down on to hers to block the attack. Metal hit metal in a thunderous clang.  Pod threw his entire weight into keeping her sword from hitting him. He was panting instantly.

“Alright, you blocked me.  Now what do you do?” Brienne asked, her blue eyes shining brightly.  She was never happier than when she was fighting, even if it was only a practice and she was going easy on her squire.

“Winding,” he answered through gritted teeth.  “Then thrust.”  Brienne nodded.  He was doing much better.  Pod twisted the sword in his hands, curling away from her and causing her sword to slid away from him.  Once free from her sword, he shoved the tip of his own weapon toward her stomach.

Brienne dodged easily to the left, knocking his sword away with her own.  “Very good,” she praised.

“Again,” she commanded, raising her sword back up to point at Podrick.  They continued like this for nearly an hour, Brienne lunging at him and Pod blocking, then Pod attacking and Brienne taking the defense.  By the end of the practice, they were both sweaty and flushed and panting, though Pod looked like he wanted to collapse on the ground while Brienne felt fully alive and energized, her muscles tired but loose.

Fumbling to put his sword back in it’s sheath, Pod enthused, “I almost had you with that parting strike!”

Brienne shrugged, “Perhaps.  But your right flank was entirely exposed.  The damage I could have done to you would have been thrice what you could have done to me.”  Podrick looked slightly crestfallen but nodded.  The poor boy.  He tried so hard.

Behind her, Brienne suddenly heard the sound of a familiar booming voice.  “That’s some fancy fighting… But it would never be enough to take down one of the free folk.”  A hearty laugh followed.

Brienne’s hand stiffened on Oathkeeper’s hilt.  Pod looked past her, his brow furrowing at the source of the sound.  

“It’s Tormund, isn’t it?” Brienne remarked in a low voice, though she was certain it was him. “The red-headed wildling fellow?”  How long had been there?  How long had he watched them?

“Aye, my lady,” was her squire's reply.  

“Where is he?” she inquired, a devilish smirk appearing on her lips.

“Behind you and to the left.  Why? What are you going to do?”  Podrick’s eyes grew wide as he looked up at her.

“How far away?” she whispered intently now.

“About four paces," he answered, before he added hesitantly, "My lady?”

“Watch and learn,” she said wickedly to her squire, before she turned her head slowly towards the wildling.  “Is that so, Tormund?” Brienne retorted loudly, a hint of mischief in her voice. Their eyes meet for a moment: his spirited and full of mirth, hers narrowed and sparking with fire.

In the next second, she was charging across the yard, Oathkeeper menacingly in the air and her long legs closing the gap between them in seconds.  She did not hold back.

Her sword crashed into the weapon rack he had been leaning against, splinters of wood exploding around her.  He had dodged her assault, just barely, rolling to the side and out of harm's way with surprising agility for such a large man.  

She yanked her sword from the wood and swung around to face him, the deadly tip pointing at his face.  A face that was grinning ear to ear.  

He had pulled his sword from his belt and was pointing it back at her.  “Thanks for the warning,” he groused, though the light that flashed in his eyes revealed he was nothing but thrilled by her sudden attack.

“You said anytime,” she smirked, moving forward slightly and watching how he responded. He was light, agile on his feet.  “Anytime I wanted to spar, you said you’d be ready.  And _eager._ ” She was mocking him.  Never did Brienne feel more confident, more emboldened, than when she had a sword in her hand.

“Aye,” Tormund admitted with a dashing grin.  His face grew serious then and she saw his grip on his sword tightening.  She was ready for his attack, having seen it coming.  But that didn’t stop her from letting out a growl as his sword met hers.  He was fucking strong and her tired shoulders screamed at being forced to resist the pressure of his blade.

But she knew she was stronger. And smarter.  And she could feel his intentions through the bind.  He was pushing the sword hard, meaning to use his brute strength to overwhelm her.  Brienne could feel herself slipping.  It was easy then, to go soft where he went hard.  She relieved the pressure on her sword, pulling back and causing him stumble forward.  Brienne spun gracefully out of his way until she was behind him. Raising her foot up, she kicked him squarely in the ass.

Already off balance, the wildling nearly fell forward on to his knees.  He caught himself, however, and whipped around to face her.  His face was red. He looked astounded she had gotten the upper hand on him so easily.  He had underestimated her.

Brienne was laughing now, arrogantly spinning the sword in her hand.  “Had enough?” she chuckled.  “By the way, I brought your cloak back,” she added, gesturing dismissively to where she had left the furs.  “I won’t be needing it anymore,” she sneered.  And I won’t be bothered by _you_ anymore, she told herself silently.

Tormund frowned, this whole interaction clearly not going as he planned.

“It’s not going to get any warmer.  Winter is coming,” he grumbled at her.  Brienne opened her mouth to respond with a haughty reply but stopped short when he lunged at her.  She had not been expecting it this time and scrambled out of the way with a yelp. He pursed her, his furious blows coming in quick succession, until Brienne felt herself gasping for breath as she struggled to block him.  Perhaps it was her that had underestimated him.  

He was positively fierce when he fought.  And _so_ fast.  

Eventually, she managed to block him roughly, pushing him back, in order to get some distance between them so she could recover.  They were both breathing heavy now.  Tormund reached his hand up to wipe the sweat from his brow and then beamed at her like he had never before had as much fun in his entire life.  Despite herself, Brienne found herself grinning back at him.  It _was_ fun.  How long had it been since she had fought someone who was her equal?

“Tell you what, my lady, the first one who disarms the other gets to decide who takes the furs,” Tormund said with a wink.  “Deal?”

Who was this man?  He clearly wanted to defeat her and then force her to take his cloak.  All this, just to ensure she would be warm?  Brienne felt a lump in her throat and forced herself to push such thoughts from her mind.  The answer was simple. She would beat him and make him keep his furs. Easy.

“Deal,” she snarled at him, wasting not a second before attacking him with a ruthless strike.  He pivoted back on his right foot, the blade slicing the air inches from him.  Not wanting to waste the momentum she had built, she turned as well and slammed her shoulder into his.  It was his turn to growl and the animalistic sound thundered from his mouth.  Their fighting continued, unabated.

Though they were too distracted to notice, a crowd had gathered to watch them spar, wildlings and crows alike. Even Jon and Sansa emerged from their battle plans in the map room to watch.  It was quite a sight, their fierce fighting.  Both of them were massive, but fast, and utterly relentless, refusing to give the other an inch.  Their sparring spread the full length of the yard, back and forth, as they pursued each other.

“What if they hurt each other?” Sansa asked her brother in a worried voice.

Jon shook his head, marveling at the two fighters’ feral dance.  “They won’t,” he said simply before pausing to frown slightly. "Hopefully..."

At that moment, Brienne and Tormund were locked in place, their blades pressed against each other and their muscled bodies straining against the other. Their faces were inches from each other as well and Brienne turned with gritted teeth to glance at him.  She was astonished to see nothing but sheer unadulterated infatuation in his eyes.  If her face wasn’t already flushed, it would have blushed entirely.

“You’re a beauty Brienne,” he spoke huskily, as if he was suddenly overcome by the appearance of the woman who looked like she was currently trying to shove her sword down to forcefully remove his head from his neck.  Brienne gasped raggedly, completely shocked by his words.

But she believed him. Sweaty and flushed and pulse pounding in her ears, she felt beautiful in his eyes.

But the feeling was fleeting.  Seconds later, she heard a loud snicker.  Turning her head slowly, she became aware of the audience that had appeared around them.  The snicker spread quickly until many of the men of the Night’s Watch were laughing cruelly at her.  She didn’t know who started it, but soon the sound of their chants could be heard echoing through the yard. “Brienne the Beauty!  Brienne the Beauty!  Brienne the Beauty!” They stomped their feet and banged their fists, cheering her on mockingly.

Pressure built at the back of her eyes but she refused to let them get the best of her.

Neither would Tormund. This was all his fault. 

He was distracted by the cheers, looking around in confusion.  She used it to her advantage, a cry tearing from her lips as she shoved her body into his, throwing every ounce of strength she had into the attack.  Her anguish only added to her fury and Tormund could do nothing but stumble back.  She landed a violent punch to his stomach and he groaned, recoiling slightly.   Nearly simultaneously, her other hand swung her sword against his, knocking it clean from his hand.  It flew through the air before landing, point down, in the mud, the hilt jerking back and forth before it came to a rest.

She stepped back from him, taking no joy in her victory.  The pain was evident on her face as the cheers only increased in volume.  She could hear Sansa yelling for them to stop, but they paid her no mind.

“Brienne,” Tormund breathed, concern for her in his voice, even as he clutched his stomach.  He looked up at her with compassion in his eyes.  It was obvious he didn’t really understand what was happening but he could see how hurt she was and he wanted to comfort her.  Ignoring everyone but her, he reached out a hand for her.

She stepped back, raising her sword between them menacingly.

“Don’t you dare!” she cried.

Brienne turned and ran from the yard, the crowd of men parting abruptly at the sight of her daunting sword coming towards them.  

Thankfully, she made it back to her quarters before the tears came.


	5. chapter five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tormund is angry. Brienne is confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post this tomorrow but I got inspired and finished it early!! :) Hope you like it.  
> More chapters coming soon! Comments & critiques appreciated!

Once she reached her room, Brienne slammed the door behind her.  Oathkeeper clattered to the ground as she dropped the sword from her hand. She slid down the door until she landed on the floor with a soft thud.  Pulling her legs to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, she pressed her face to her knees.  The fabric of her pants quickly grew damp from her tears.

Stupid.

She was stupid.  STUPID!

And she was acting like a bloody child, crying over something so pathetic.  

So what if they teased her? So what if she was ugly?

There were worse things to be. She could be maimed, or sick, or _dead._

She could be like Sansa, tortured by a sadistic man, raped and beaten.

She could be like Jon, betrayed by his own men and stabbed to death.

She could be like Tormund, most of his people dead and his homeland stolen from him.

_Tormund._

This was his fault, she thought bitterly.

Not that he could have seen it coming. It was just… Brienne had accepted the fact long ago that she was an ugly beast of a woman.  Everywhere she went, she was mocked and insulted.  Her skin had grown thick and she hadn’t cried over it since she was a young woman.

But she had believed Tormund.  She had forgotten, just for a second, her own vast ugliness.  It made it all the more cruel when they started to cheer.  The reality of her repulsiveness had come crashing down around her.

She was crying because she was just so stupid.  She should not have let her guard down, let herself believe him.  

Tormund was a fool.  And she was twice the fool for letting him get to her.

Brienne lifted her head up, her eyes red and puffy.  She roughly wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand and then stood up. Taking a deep breath, she told herself to stop blubbering like a goddamn idiot.  And the tears did stop, eventually.

-

Tormund frowned deeply as Brienne stalked away, genuine confusion in his eyes.  What had just happened?  Had they not been having a rousing spar seconds ago? And then the crows had begun to cheer and then…?  He did not understand.

Fucking crows, Tormund thought, his temper quickly flaring.  He stomped to his sword and yanked it from the mud.  He turned to the men of the Night's Watch, who were still enjoying a brutish laugh, and roared, “SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTHS, YOU FILTHY CUNTS!”

A hush settled over the crowd, the savage look in Tormund’s eyes silencing all but the most brave, or dense, of the men.

One such man was a squat fellow, hair the color of fresh shit with a sneer twisted on his lips.  “What’s the matter, wildling?  Upset that we insulted your man?  Uh, I mean, _woman_.  I can’t really tell.”  He sniggered loudly, seeming proud of his utter lack of wit.  “You sure she hasn’t got a dick under that armor?  Or a fucking cun-”  

He never got to finish that sentence.  Tormund’s fist came crashing down on the man's face, bone breaking and blood spurting instantly.  The man fell to his knees in agony and Tormund pelted him with fierce blows.  He would have beat him to death, surely, if not for the other men that pulled the enraged wildling off.  

“Let me go or I will fucking kill every last one of you!” Tormund shouted, yanking himself away from the men that were trying to hold him back. They released him instantly at the threat and stepped back to give him wide berth.   Tormund didn’t care about the wounded fool moaning on the ground anymore.  He turned and shoved his way through the crowd, blood dripping from his fists.  He wanted to find Brienne.  He wanted to understand what had happened, what had caused the sudden shift in her and such anguish to appear on her lovely face.

He stopped a few steps later, however, when he spotted Podrick standing awkwardly at the end of the yard, clearly attempting to not been seen. He wasn't doing a good job of it. Tormund started towards him. The young squire avoided Tormund’s eyes and tugged at the belt that held his sword to his waist, pretending to be engrossed in it. He had been watching them spar, undoubtedly, and had seen what had turned his fair lady’s favor. This is where Tormund would get answers.

“Aye, boy!” Tormund called, gesturing for the squire to come forward. Podrick hesitated, glancing to where Brienne had disappeared to, and shifting his feet nervously.  Uncertainly showed on his young face.

“Nothing to be afraid of, lad!” Tormund bellowed. “I just want a word with you.”  He no doubt looked a fright, his hands stained with blood and his eyes slightly crazed.  Podrick hesitated a moment longer before stepping toward the flame haired man, who, in turn, closed the gap between them. Podrick looked nervously up at the wildling, who eclipsed him in both width and height, although he didn’t tower over him nearly as much as Brienne did.  

Tormund clapped the squire on the back in a gesture of goodwill, a weak grin of thanks on this face, before growing serious and leaning in to ask, “What happened? Why did Brienne run from me?”

A wave of confusion passed over Podrick’s face.  Of all the things he thought that this wildling man would ask him, this seemed entirely the most unlikely.  Pod opened his mouth and closed it again, trying to find words, any words to respond to this question. “Well, they, uh, they were calling her Brienne the Beauty,” he managed to reply.

“Aye.  A fitting name,” Tormund replied, his other hand absently tugging on his beard as he considered this.

“No,” Podrick replied, shaking his head, “They call her that because she’s _not_ bea-“. Tormund narrowed his eyes at the boy. Pod stopped himself short and reconsidered his words.

He continued carefully, “They call her that because she’s not like other noble women.  She doesn’t wear dresses or sew.  She doesn’t act, or look, how she is supposed to.  They call her that to _mock_ her.”  Podrick gulped and looked around guilty, feeling as though he had said too much and was somehow betraying his lady.

Tormund had no response but to exhale forcefully, his eyebrows furrowed.  His hand, still on Podrick’s shoulder, tightened uncomfortably.  “But she is strong,” he replied.  “She is tall and powerful.  She wields a sword like no other.  She could rip apart a man with her bare hands.  She is a goddess!”  Podrick was astonished by the fervor in which Tormund spoke of Brienne. He could do nothing but shrug and attempt to dislodge the wildling’s iron grip on him.

“They’ve called her that since she was a girl,” Pod said after a moment in which he had been able to wriggle himself free from Tormund’s suffocating grasp.  “They call her that wherever she goes.”

Tormund nodded, distracted by his thoughts, but finally beginning to understand at least somewhat what he had done.  “I started it.  I called her a beauty,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, a pained look on his face.  “In front of those fucking crows.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Sansa clear voice rang out, interrupting their conversation. They both turned to look at the beautiful lady, dressed in the color of emerald with her hair in a thick braid over her shoulder.

“I should... I should talk to her,” Tormund stated, taking a step in the direction of Brienne’s quarters.

“No,” Sansa said assuredly, raising her hand to stop him. “Let me.”  Tormund paused, wanting to argue with her, wanting to insist that he should be the one the go, the one to apologize. "You should try to calm down," Sansa murmured, and then gestured to his bloody hands. "And clean yourself up. I know how to talk to her."

“Fine,” Tormund grumbled, gritting his teeth before turning and stomping away.

Sansa watched him go, her eyes full of curiosity.  She turned to Podrick and asked quietly, “Did he just call Brienne a goddess?”

“Aye, my lady,” he replied, looking just as bewildered as Sansa felt.

“Hmmm,” was all she could say, a small smile pulling at her rosy lips.

-

Brienne was sitting at one of the chairs in her quarters, pieces of her armor and her sword strewn across the wooden table.  She had wholly focused on cleaning and oiling her armor, careful to get every nook and cranny, until she no longer felt completely awful.   She was grateful for the distraction, her face still only mildly red and puffy from her outburst.  She felt much calmer now, back to her usual stoic self.  Once she had finished the armor, she moved to work on her sword.  She had cleaned and oiled it as well and was now polishing it, her hand sliding back and forth along the steel.  She tried to think of nothing but the weapon in her hands, but occasionally she couldn’t help her mind wandering.  She didn’t think of Tormund though, but of Jaime.

Where was he?  What was he doing?  Did he ever think of her, as she did of him?  She found herself wishing he was here, though why, she did not know.  He would have teased her for her tears, undoubtedly.  “What did you expect, wench?” he would say, but there would have been kindness in his eyes.

Brienne sighed.  And then sucked in a quick breath in surprise as someone rapped loudly on her door.

“Brienne?  Are you there?”  It was Lady Sansa.

“Yes,” she replied.  “You can come in.”  Brienne laid her sword down on the table.

The young lady entered gracefully, pushing the door shut behind her with one slender hand.  She came to sit on the other chair in the room, across the table from Brienne.  She looked closely at Brienne’s face, searching it, almost certainly noticing the traces of Brienne’s tears.  

Brienne looked away, feeling uncomfortable.  Sansa remained quiet for a long moment.

“If it makes you feel any better, Jon put the men who started it on midnight watch for a month,” Sansa murmured.  “And permanent latrine duty because what they did was _shit._ ”

Latrine duty… because they were shits.

Brienne was unable to stop the loud guffaw that erupted from her mouth.  She pressed a hand over her mouth as she brought her head up to look at Sansa.  The Lady’s blue eyes sparkled with humor and amity back at her.  They both started laughing then, the tension soon gone from the air.

“Are you alright?” Sansa asked after they had calmed down enough to speak.

“Yes, of course,” Brienne retorted, dismissing Sansa’s concern with a wave of her hand.  She was so kind, just like her mother.  “It’s not the first time it’s happened.  And it won’t be the last.”

“I know, but-”

Brienne’s steely look silenced her.

But only for a moment before Sansa continued anyway, her voice soft but adamant  “He’s sorry, you know.  He didn’t mean for that to happen.” Sansa didn’t need to say who _he_ was.  Brienne knew.  Of course she knew.  But it didn’t make it any better.  It didn’t make her feel any less foolish.

“I don’t care,” Brienne muttered with an angry frown.  Sansa nodded, looking slightly sad that Brienne refused to even budge an inch.

“Well, it doesn’t matter much does it?” Sansa replied solemnly after a moment, pressing her hands against the table and standing up.  “We’ll be leaving Castle Black tomorrow.  You’ll go on to Riverrun. Tormund will return to the free folk camp.  If you’re lucky, you’ll never see the wildling ever again.”

Brienne looked down, her face falling and her hands clenching into fists at her sides.  Sansa was right.  After they camped tomorrow night, they would part ways.  It was a stunning realization.  She might never again see that dopey smile on his face or the way his eyes lit up when he looked at her.

“I don’t care,” Brienne repeated, though the emotion in her voice revealed far more than she wanted it to.  She didn’t care!  She wouldn't let herself!

“Of course not,” Sansa said softly.  She walked to the door and opened it, pausing for a moment and looking back at Brienne.  “But would it be so terrible if you did?”  With that, Sansa turned and exited the room, leaving Brienne churning in a storm of her own thoughts.


	6. chapter six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to heat up...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the cliffhanger! I am a terrible person.  
> More chapters coming soon! Comments & critiques appreciated!

Despite Sansa’s gentle prodding, Brienne remained resolute in her decision to _not care_ about the wildling fellow with the beard.  

It was safer this way, she told herself as she packed her saddlebags and prepared for the journey south to Riverrun.

Why take the risk? She asked herself as they ate their morning meal, Sansa and Jon making last minute plans about which houses in the North they would appeal to first.

He’s a fool, she reminded herself as she heard him sigh loudly on the horse next to her.  She turned to look at him and the stupid grin he gave her nearly made her reconsider.  But instead she scowled and looked away. And _you’re_ a fool if you let him get to you, she reminded herself.

Brienne was grateful to be leaving Castle Black and putting the confusing and unpleasant memories of her time there behind her.  The trip south was slow going though, with the thick snow and their rather large party.  However, it was easy for Brienne to ignore _him,_ slowing her horse or speeding up if he tried to ride next to her.  They rode all day before stopping in the evening to set up camp.  There was much to do then; start the fires, set up tents, cook something to eat.   No time for talking, no time for letting thoughts of a certain wildling creep into her head.

After making sure Sansa was settled in her tent, Brienne and Pod decided to forgo their evening training for they were both exhausted.   They each crawled into their respective tents and within minutes, Brienne could hear Pod’s light snoring joining the litany of other sleep noises from the men that had already retired for the night.

Brienne lay on her back, staring up into the darkness and wondering if she was making a mistake.  It didn’t matter though, for in the next moment, she sunk into a dreamless sleep.

-

Brienne woke some time later, the frigid temperatures having pulled her from her slumber.  She could not stay warm.  Dressed in every item of clothing she owned, save her bracers, pauldrons, and cuirass and curled in all of her blankets, she could not stop the shivers from shuddering through her body.  Gods!  She would never become accustomed to the weather in the North!  The relentless chattering of her teeth finally motivated her to rise from her bedroll and seek the warmth of the campfire.  She wriggled stiffly out of the tiny tent and shuffled to the glowing heat.  

The fire, still burning bright in the middle of the circle of tents, was unattended.  She cared little that no one seemed to be on watch at the present moment.  Sitting on a fallen tree log that served as a makeshift bench, she huddled near the fire and attempted to thaw her frozen body.  Why oh why had she insisted on returning the wildling’s furs?  Damn her interminable pride!  Brienne silently cursed herself.  She could be warm right now if she had only acquiesced to his urging to keep the cloak.  The heat from the fire slowly began to warm her stiff joints, yet the cold still licked at her back.  

She pulled her gloves off with her teeth and nearly thrust her hands into the crackling fire, wanting to feel the heat on her skin.  Pumping her hands to regain feeling in them, Brienne looked around and at last began to wonder why she was alone in the clearing.  She could hear a low snoring of one of the men in one of the tents, but there was no sign of whoever’s turn it was to be guarding camp.  Her eyes scanned the trees around her as the fire cast flickering shadows on the snowy forest.  Feeling the hairs stand up on the back of her neck, she began to sense she was being watched.  Instinctively, she reached for Oathkeeper at her side only to realize that in her haste to warm herself she had left the sword in her tent. She felt her pulse quicken and began to stand, ready to sprint for her tent if any threat should appear.

Before she even stood up completely, the outline of a man appeared in the shadows of the trees.  For a second, fear bloomed inside of her until the figure moved closer and an unmistakeable red beard illuminated in the firelight.

Tormund.  

With his arms full of thick branches for the fire.  Moving silently, without so much as a whisper of sound, through the snow.  

Brienne exhaled in relief, before sinking back down to her place by the fire.   As he moved towards the fire, Tormund cocked his head to the side and looked at her.  He seemed confused to see her there, out of her tent in the middle of the night, but definitely not bothered by her presence  

Brienne hunched herself closer to the fire and focused on the flickering light, actively ignoring him.  Tormund said not a word but crouched by the opposite side of the fire.  He stroked the flames and fed the fire several more branches, watching it spark and grow.  As the heat intensified, Brienne couldn’t help but let out a murmur of gratitude.

“Bloody cold night, it is” he said softly, breaking the silence between them.

She raised her eyes to look at him and their eyes met over the sparks.  His gaze was intense, as usual, but not as pressing as before.  He seemed more curious, cautious even.  Tormund stood then and gestured to the other end of the fallen log.  “Would you mind if I…” his gravelly voice trailed off.   He wanted to sit.  Next to her.  And he seemed to be making every effort to be courteous and polite, instead of his usual boisterous wildling self.

Brienne nodded but said nothing.  She moved over slightly so he would have more room and returned her gaze to the fire.  He strode around the fire in two steps and sank down on the log next to her.  His shoulder was centimeters from hers yet not a bit of his body brushed against her.  She was acutely aware of this, the tiny space between them, and felt fidgety at just the closeness of him.  He reached his bare hands out to the fire, letting out a contented sigh as the heat reached them.  His hands were huge, paws really, scarred and calloused.  They were strong hands, capable of brutal violence, of this Brienne was sure.   And yet she also could recall the gentle way in which he had caught her hands in his and brought them to his lips.  His hands were dangerous, yes, but not for the pain he could cause with them, but for the way in which Brienne couldn’t help but imagine the pleasure that his hands would surely bring if she allowed him to touch her.  Brienne shivered, wrapping her arms around her chest and willing herself to put such thoughts out of her head.  She didn’t care, remember?

And yet... out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t help but sneak a look over at his face.  He wasn’t looking at her, thankfully, but was instead gazing into the fire.  She took advantage of the moment to really look at him, to size him up.  He was bathed in the warm flickering light of the fire as she silently catalogued his features:

A thick mess of copper curls that reached past his ears and joined to the thicker beard that sprang from his face.  

She could barely see his girlishly pink lips, for hidden beneath his facial hair they were.

A sharp, straight nose.  

Freckles.  So many freckles.

Cheeks reddened from the cold.

A strong brow, furrowed slightly as he contemplated the crackling fire.  

Light eyes, surprisingly so… and green?  How had she not noticed his beautiful green eyes before?  

Brienne pressed her lips together as she gazed at him, her own brow furrowing now.  

How was it…

that he was…

handsome?   

Not like Renly was handsome, with his perfectly coiffed hair, trimmed beard and elegant crown and robes.  Not like Jaime with his, well, dashingness that seemed to just ooze appeal and cause all the court ladies to swoon merely at his smile.  

Tormund was different, wasn’t he? Rough. Wild. Different from any man she had ever met before, in more ways than one.  Seeming to sense that he was being stared at, Tormund shifted his gaze to meet Brienne’s, the corner of his mouth rising in a lopsided grin.  Brienne’s frown intensified and she looked away quickly.  She did not see the way in which Tormund’s face fell at her harsh reaction to him.  He opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it and closed his mouth.  His hesitation only lasted a moment before he changed his mind again and pressed on.  

“I’m sorry,” he blurted in his deep baritone, “for calling you a beauty.  I meant no harm.  The boy, your squire, explained.  I didn’t know-“

She cut him off, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.  What had Pod told him? “It’s fine” she retorted, her lips in a grim line as she forced herself to meet his eyes.  His eyes were full of what? Concern? Compassion? She wished she could sink into snow and disappear.  She didn’t need or want his apology, much less whatever else was hiding in those eyes.  This whole situation was quickly becoming unbearable. She spoke slowly, stiffly, “It is forgotten.  I am the one who should apologize for acting in such a-“

It was his turn to cut her off now.  “You are _beautiful_ though,” he insisted, the fire light dancing in his jade eyes. “The way you swing a sword-” he explained, a wordless sound of awe escaping his lips.  “I’ve never seen a woman as strong, as stunning, as remarkable as you.”  He was gazing at her again, with _those_ eyes.  Those eyes full of reverence and desire.  

He murmured her name then, a solemn prayer leaving his lips, “Brienne…”

She could do nothing but stare back at him, her mouth slightly open.  Her first instinct was to deny his words, to deny the possibility that he could mean them.  This was just another cruel joke, meant to twist the pain even further.  She was _not_ beautiful.  She had been reminded of that nearly every day of her life.  The idea that he could look at her and see anything but an ugly, too-tall, too-large, beast of a woman was preposterous. 

This wasn’t happening.  This wasn’t real.

And yet he kept gazing at her, his eyes keenly searching hers before darting down to look at her lips.  He moved closer to her then, slowly leaning in as his eyes found hers again.  Oh gods!  He meant to kiss her.  

This _was_ real.  No man could fake the fire that burned in his eyes.

Brienne froze.  Brienne of Tarth, who had fought a bear and the Hound and hordes of men, was to be undone by a wildling’s kiss.  He moved closer still, and time seemed to slow as Brienne’s heart thudded wildly in her chest.  She felt her stomach flip-flop in a mixture of apprehension and exhilaration.  He was inches from her now, his lips parting in anticipation of meeting hers.  He did not close his eyes but instead continued to drink her in as though he wanted to revel in her every reaction.  This was it.  He was going to kiss her.  He was going to close the gap between them and press his lips to hers…

“Wait,” she whispered breathlessly, desperately.  

He stopped obediently, their noses nearly touching.   She expected to see anger in his eyes, or at least annoyance at her sudden command.  There was none.  Instead, he continued to gaze at her with a joy in his eyes, savoring the chance to admire the woman of his adoration up close.

He was such a strange man.

And yet she was stranger still.  Some part of her had wanted him to kiss her, hadn’t she?  Otherwise she would have said stop, instead of merely wait.  She would have turned away or pushed him away.  She still could.  And yet there they remained, a hair’s breadth apart.  She could feel his warm breath on her skin and lips.  Brienne realized, in that moment, she was no longer cold.  He had warmed her, inside and out.

She raised her hand tentatively to lightly touch his cheek, feeling the scruff of his beard beneath her palm.  She was fascinated by this man before her, this man whose eyes brimmed with want for her.  What did he see when he looked at her?  Under her fingers, his skin was hot and rough, dotted with scars and wind burnt.   Her thumb brushed across his bottom lip and he lazily closed his eyes, letting her touch him where she wanted.

Brienne swallowed hard, torn as to how to proceed, unsure of what she truly wanted.  To kiss him would mean that she, Brienne of Tarth, had yielded to a man.  To actually let him touch her… who would she even be anymore? She could not fathom it. She had never thought it possible.

“Brienne,” Tormund purred, pulling her from her thoughts.  He was holding her in his eyes again, searching her face and seeing the hesitation that was so evident there.  He reached his hand up to gently encircle her wrist.  Her hand was still perched on the side of his face and so he tilted his head to the side to touch his lips to her palm.  His eyes never left hers.  She sucked in a quick breath and a shiver, though not from the cold, traveled down her spine.  All that, from a light kiss on her hand!  Who was she?  Brienne could feel him smile beneath her hand at her response.  In that moment, it was confirmed to the both of them, Brienne and Tormund alike, that he was not alone in his desire.

And yet Brienne’s next instinct was to pull away, to retreat, to protect herself.  And so she did.  He offered no resistance, immediately releasing his gentle grip her wrist.  There was a bit of confusion in his eyes and he leaned back from her.  She instantly regretted the space between them but never in a thousand seasons would she be able to form the words to say so.  Feeling a familiar wave of self-hatred wash over her, albeit the reasons for this loathing were new, Brienne turned her gaze back to the fire. He, in response, turned to the fire as well. The moment, the heat between them, passed as quickly as it had sparked. She couldn’t bear to lift her eyes to look at him.  The silence stretched on and on, broken only by the occasional crack of the fire.  And now she felt cold.

After some time, he spoke.  His voice was low, quiet, but brimming with an urgency that she did not expect.  “I promise I won’t touch you.  Won’t look at you. Won’t kiss you. Won’t lay one finger on you...”  She needn’t be looking at him to feel the weight of his words.  He meant it.  Every word. But he wasn’t quite finished yet, “Till ye be ready and beggin’ for it.”  With that he rose and strode to his tent, disappearing between the leather flaps, leaving nothing but Brienne sitting there, mouth agape, in the wake of his words.  

A hot red flush crept up Brienne’s neck, even as she hastily dismissed the salaciousness of his words.  Begging?!?  BEGGING!!?!  She would never do such thing!  Just about the only contest she could undoubtedly win every time, besides a height competition among the women of Westeros, was a battle of repressed desires.  Three broken engagements and a lifetime of unrequited love makes a woman quite skilled at denying her feelings, lustful or otherwise.  And yet even as she assured herself of this, the idea that he was wanting her, pining for her, yearning for her but willing to wait however long it took until she was comfortable, ready, _eager…_ Gods! It was an overwhelming fantasy. She breathed in a deep breath, pulling the cold night air into her lungs, and exhaling slowly, attempting to steady the shakiness she felt deep within herself.  That’s what he did, this fire-kissed wildling.  He made her feel unstable, unbalanced, unsure.  She took another slow calming breath, closing her eyes this time.  

Her eyes flew open as a rustling sound interrupted her attempt to compose herself.

It was Tormund.  

He pushed himself from his tent and stood up, carrying something in his hands.  She looked at his hands, then at his face, unable to distinguish any details due his distance from the fire light. She turned herself back to the fire and tried to ignore him.   She heard him move closer, the muscles in her chest tightening with every step he took toward her.  What did he want now?  Had he changed his mind? Was he going to try to overwhelm her?  Force her?  These fears swirled in her mind.  But her initial question was soon answered.

She felt the heavy weight of his furs on her shoulders as he gently placed them upon her.  She was immediately engulfed in their warmth and his scent. “Tis a cold night,” he spoke quietly, before she heard him move away from her.  He wanted nothing from her.  He had merely brought her his cloak to keep her warm.  The act of kindness did nothing to ease the pressure in her heart.  Instead she felt something break deep within her. How much of her life had been ruled by fear, ridicule, scorn, pity?  What had she missed building this impenetrable wall around herself?  What would happen if she…

Brienne turned towards him, watching him return to his tent, the word escaping from her lips before she could stop herself.

“Wait!”


	7. chapter seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One step forward, two steps... sideways?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so fluffy. Forgive me.  
> Next update won't be until Monday. I'm going to go outside for a while. :)

_“Wait!”_

It was all, apparently, she could say to him.  He stopped his exit and slowly turned back to her. Tormund had no doubt resigned himself to the idea that he was in for a long wait, and perhaps a futile one at that.  Brienne swung her long legs over the log and stood up, moving swiftly towards him, one hand clutching his cloak to keep it on her shoulders. She closed the gap between them in seconds. She was taller than him, only by a few inches, yet she enjoyed the sweet power she felt looking down at him.  Brienne of Tarth would not yield to man, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t take what she wanted.  He searched her face, clearly bewildered, unaware of the fire growing in her belly. She didn’t let herself think too much and therefore think better of it.  Before he could so much as blink, she reached forward and grasped the furs on his chest with both of her hands. Pulling him roughly against her, she closed her eyes and pressed her lips against his.  

She was.

Kissing.

Tormund.

A jolt of warm electricity shot through her body as they touched.  It took Tormund a second before he overcame his utter surprise and was able respond to her.  He closed his eyes, and reached his hands up to cradle her face.  He deepened the kiss and her lips parted in response to him. She breathed in his scent, all her senses overwhelmed by him. She could feel the tickle of his beard against her chin, the smooth heat of his lips, his calloused hands on her cheeks. He tasted of mead. His tongue teased her own and she couldn’t help but moan softly.  He responded with a guttural sound, lightly grazing his teeth on her bottom lip.  Her entire body felt hot, _burning,_ and she could feel herself almost trembling against him.

He ended the kiss slowly, pulling back from her to look in her eyes, a wide smile spreading on his lips.  She felt utterly exposed and glanced away before mustering the courage to meet his eyes again.  The passion, the utter infatuation, the _worship_ in his eyes left her just as breathless as his lips had.  He was transfixed by her.  

“You are amazing, Brienne.  You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met,” he gushed in his deep voice, unashamed of his open admiration of her.  It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.  She knew her cheeks were likely the color of a tomato at the present moment, but she cared little. She felt a sort of lightness, a weightless giddiness.  “I could say the same to you,” she retorted, an honest to goodness giggle escaping her lips. What was happening to her?

Tormund beamed at her laugh, looking as though it was the most pleasant sound he had ever heard.  He moved his hands from her face and slid them down to her shoulders before moving closer to her still and encircling her in his arms.  His hands came to rest on her lower back.  She loosened the grip of her fists in his furs and wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling the desire to be as near to him as possible as he drew her closer.  Even through the thickness of the furs he wore, she could feel the hard muscles and strength of his body.

Wrapped in his arms, the most magical thing began to happen.  It started to snow.   Growing up in the south, Brienne had little experience with snow and despite the horrid cold, she found the flurries to be beautiful.  As the snowflakes fluttered from the night sky, they caught in Tormund’s hair and beard, leaving him covered in tiny white speckles.  No doubt she was dusted in a fine layer of the white powder as well.  A smile pulled on the corner of her lips and she whispered, “It’s snowing!”  She tilted her head back to feel the cool caress of the snowflakes on her flushed skin.  He watched her, relishing in her delight.  The sight of snow was much less thrilling to the wildling, especially in comparison to the dazzling woman in his arms.  Their warm breath rose in plumes around them, twisting up in the dark sky.  Brienne closed her eyes for a moment, only to open them with a gasp when Tormund had seized the moment with her head back to plant soft kisses along her exposed neck.

“Tormund,” she murmured huskily as his kisses turned to light nips along her skin.  She felt dizzy, _hot._ He paused for a moment to speak but she could still feel his lips move against her neck.  “Come in my tent.  Let me _really_ warm you up,” he urged.  She knew not how to respond to his offer. Part of her was tempted, but another part of her, a louder part of her, was afraid.  She stiffened in his arms.  His stopped his assault on her neck to look up at her, searching her eyes.  She could only look away, biting her bottom lip.

“I won’t hurt ya,” he said gently.  Brienne managed a slow nod, but remained reluctant.  “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.  Not ‘til you’re beggin’ for it,” he reminded her with a light chuckle, one hand stroking the small of her back.  Brienne believed him.  She did.  But it did nothing to lessen her trepidation.

They remained there, in eachother’s arms, for a long moment.  Tormund waiting patiently for her response and Brienne trying to come up with one. They were interrupted, however, when a wildling man that Brienne didn’t recognize emerged from one of the tents.  Feeling somewhat embarrassed to be caught in Tormund’s arms, Brienne pulled herself away and took a step back.  Tormund frowned.  The wildling paid no attention to them and walked sleepily to the forest's edge to relieve himself.  The two of them stood there awkwardly, neither knowing what to say.

When the wildling finished and began walking back to his tent, Tormund stepped toward him. “Hey, you’re on watch now,” he commanded.   The wildling looking confused for a moment, before nodding and moving to sit beside the fire.   

Tormund returned swiftly to Brienne’s side, taking her hand in his.  He looked up at her and whispered, “Please join me in my tent.  You’ve got my best furs and it’s bloody freezing.”  Tormund reached one hand up to tug the cloak tighter around her shoulders.  “You’ll feel fucking awful if you wake up tomorrow and I’m frozen to death,” he teased her with a goading smile.  She rolled her eyes at his ridiculousness but felt herself being swayed none the less.

“Alright,” she agreed before quickly adding, “But we are just going to sleep.  Nothing more.”  There was an unmistakeable sternness to her voice.  She was not playing coy.  She was serious.

“Of course,” Tormund replied, grinning from ear to ear as though he had gotten everything that he wanted.  He bent down to enter his tent, tugging her in after him.  

The tent was small, barely enough room for both of their hefty bodies.  Tormund dropped to his knees and Brienne followed suit.  It was dark too, the thick leather of the tent blocking out most of the light from the campfire.  He turned to her and removed his cloak from her shoulders, shaking it out the flaps of the tent to rid the furs of the snow they had accumulated.  Turning back to her, their heads bumped together as they both leaned forward in an attempt to remove their boots.  Brienne let out a giggle, rubbing the spot on her forehead that had touched his.  The wildling chuckled too before saying, “Alright. You first.”

Brienne wriggled to her side, pulling her leg up to unlace her boot and promptly kneeing Tormund in the gut to which he let out a low “oof”. This time a  boisterous chortle erupted from her mouth at the absurdity of the two of them fumbling in the dark, their large frames filling up the tiny tent.  It was somehow hilarious to her.  “This is so romantic,” she gasped between laughs.  Her laughter was contagious and soon he had joined her.  She could barely see him but she could imagine the humor sparkling in his eyes and the way his chest heaved with laughter.  

“You think you’re so funny, Brienne of Tarth,” he said with a playful snarl, before grabbing her by the waist and pulling her body alongside his.  She couldn’t fight him, her body weak from the laughter.  Not that she really wanted too.  

His lips found hers in the dark.  She felt herself relax into him, even as the heat began to grow in her belly at his touch.  Feeling brave in the dark, she moved her hands up to run her fingers through his thick hair before closing her hands in fists in it.  This time, she moved her tongue to touch his lips and then stroke his tongue with her own.  Tormund let out a low moan, his hold on her growing more tight.  It was bewildering to her, the power she had over him.  How the fierce wildling man was utterly defenseless against her.  

Not that she immune to him.  Not by any means.  She could feel the growing dampness between her legs.  But instead of it propelling her further, the realization of her own arousal caused a wave of uneasiness and fear to wash over her.  She wasn’t ready for this.

It was Brienne who ended the kiss this time, releasing her hands from his hair and pulling her lips from his abruptly.  He exhaled sharply at her sudden absence.  She was grateful for the darkness so he could not see her flushed face or the glowing desire in her own eyes.  Brienne knew that she was teetering on the edge of this decision and if he pushed her, she could see herself surrendering to him.

But he did not push her.  His breath seemed heavy when he spoke. “We’re just here to sleep.” He sounded like he was reminding himself more than her.  She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her in the dark.  It was the line that she had made, the boundary she had drawn.  And he was trying to respect it, despite the battle he was fighting with his own lust.

“Thank you,” she murmured and she truly was.  Who knew that a wildling could be so honorable?  She fumbled in the dark until she found his hand, her fingers entwining in his as a small gesture of her gratitude.  He squeezed her hand back and for a moment, they remained like that, lying next to each other, hand in hand.  She heard his breath slowly return to normal.

“You’ll be the death of me, woman.” he growled, though there was amusement in his voice.

“There are worse ways to go,” she quipped.

“Aye,” he admitted with a laugh.  Brienne felt herself smiling in the dark.  

“Probably for the best though,” he added, his voice taking on a lusty deepness.  “I’d have you moaning so loud, you’d wake the entire camp.”

Brienne gasped at his blatant lechery, suddenly wishing she could see his face, see his eyes, as he said such debaucherous things.  She was curious too.  What would he do to her?  How would he make her moan?

“Something to look forward to at Winterfell,” he teased.

“Winterfell!” Brienne blurted, sitting up suddenly, ecstatic at his words.  “You’re going to stay at Winterfell?”

Tormund chuckled at her outburst, sitting up next to her.  “After we take the bloody thing back from that Ramsay bastard, Jon and I have to make plans, preparations for the White Walkers.  As he likes to say, Winter is coming… And you will be too, if I have my way...”   

She couldn’t see his face, but she swore she could hear him grinning, so proud of his dirty pun.  

“Tormund!” she chastised, playfully shoving him. He was going to stay at Winterfell! She would see him again! He caught her hands, pulling her roughly towards him.  His warm lips pressed against her neck: kissing, biting.  Brienne closed her eyes, gasping as his playful nips traveled up her neck until he took her earlobe in his hot mouth.  She felt his teeth graze against it until he bit down lightly on her earlobe.  “Tormund!” she cried again, this time pleading.

He pulled back from her, taking a breath, before he tugged gently on her gambeson.  “You’re not going to sleep in this, are you?” he asked, clearly disappointed.

“Uh... I was,” Brienne admitted slowly, realizing that sleeping next to the long chain-mailed garment likely wouldn’t be very comfortable for Tormund.  She considered it for a moment, knowing under Tormund’s thick furs, she wouldn’t need the extra warmth.  Her undershirt and tunic would be enough.  So she murmured, “I don’t have too.”  She reached down to the hem at her knees and began to pull the thick coat up and over her head, struggling slightly in the cramped tent.  Tormund helped, his hands sliding up her sides before he began tugging it off of her.  When she was finally free of it, she shook her head and exhaled happily.

“This thing is fucking heavy,” Tormund said, lifting the gambeson in his hands, clearly impressed.  He scooted towards her feet and set it near the entrance to the tent, before turning back to Brienne.

“Stay there,” he told her, “I rather not get another knee in the chest.”  She felt him slid his hand down her calf and then gently tug her boot off of her foot.  His large fingers kneaded the arch of her foot and Brienne let out a sigh, laying down on her back.  He did the same with the other boot as well, his hands lingering on her for longer than was necessary.  She didn’t mind.

Brienne wiggled her freed toes as she heard him turn to take his own boots off.  Her eyes were adjusting to the dark and she propped herself up on her elbow.  She could see the outline of his body against the light of the fire beyond him.  He was removing his belt and the heavy, snow dusted furs on his upper body.  She realized, with a gulp, that his broad chest was now bare.  Brienne lay back down, staring up in the dark. She could feel her pulse begin to pound as she wondered if he was removing his trousers as well.

But he did not appear to be doing so.  Instead, he moved to lay beside her, pulling his many furs up and over the both of them.  She lay there on her back for a moment before rolling on her side to face away from him.  She felt nervous.  Even though she knew he wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want. Perhaps it was not him that she didn’t trust.  Perhaps it was herself.

“Are you warm?” he inquired.

“Yes,” she murmured in reply.

“Would thoust permit me to place thine arm around you?” he asked in an exaggerated posh accent, clearly attempting to mock the way nobles spoke.  And failing miserably.

She snickered at him before replying, “Indubitably.”

“Huh?”

 _"Yes,"_ she groaned, “Hold me, Tormund.”

He wasted no time complying. She felt him move closer to her, and held her breath as his chest pressed lightly against her back.  His hand slid over her waist as he wrapped his thick arm around her.   She could feel his hot breath on the back of her neck.  It was almost too much… being that close to him.  Brienne closed her eyes and let out a shaky exhale.  

“You’re so tense,” he murmured quietly.  “I can move-,” he said as he began to pull away.

“No!” she replied, grabbing his arm firmly with one hand to keep it around her.

“Yes, my lady,” he said with a laugh and she could feel his chest lightly vibrating against her back.  She nuzzled into him and he responded by drawing the full length of her against his hard body.  It was simply sublime.  She had never been held by a man before.  She lay there and let herself slowly relax against him.  He brushed his lips against the back of her neck and Brienne felt herself nearly melting in his arms.  She was so warm and she felt so snug, so safe.  The exhaustion from the long day of riding seemed to hit her all at once and she felt her eyes begin to droop.

“Goodnight Brienne,” she heard him breath as she slipped into a deep, peaceful sleep in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if you started reading this and were hoping for all the smut. It's gonna happen, I swear! But I don't think Brienne would go from kissing to fucking in five minutes. It's frustrating, I know, but I think it's more true to her character. Just imagine how Tormund feels! LOL


	8. chapter eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regrets are such a waste of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was such a bitch to write! I went camping over the weekend and spent the whole time hiking, swimming, sitting around fires and having a great time totally unplugged from technology. It was beautiful. Then I come back and sit down to write and...NOTHING!! I knew what I wanted to write but I just couldn't make it happen. That is the worst feeling!  
> So anyway, in conclusion, I hate nature. I hate this chapter. Everything sucks. But please keep reading! The next chapter will be better or at least easier to write. FINGERS CROSSED.

She had honestly never slept so sound.

Brienne woke slowly, cracking open one eye as the rising sun bathed the small tent in a warm pinkish light.  They had shifted in the night and Brienne found herself molded to Tormund’s side.  He was on his back now, his arm around her and his hand resting lightly on her lower back.  She lay in the crook of his arm, her head on his bare chest and her arm curled around him.  One of her long legs was thrust between his.  

It was far too close, too intimate.    

But she didn’t move.

And, strangely, she didn’t feel immediately uncomfortable.

Instead of moving away, she turned her head up to gaze at his face.  In the light, she noticed even more freckles that dotted his nose, cheeks, and forehead.  His eyelashes were short and fair, like her own.  He looked remarkedly handsome in the glowing morning light, his hair and beard ablaze.  The only movement from him was the steady rise and fall of his chest.  She was careful not to wake him, not wanting to disturb his peaceful slumber.  She lay her cheek back against his warm chest and breathed him in deeply.  

How had they ended up tangled up in each other’s arms like this?  She felt the right thing, the _proper_ thing to do, would be to separate herself from him and move away.

And yet, at the same time, Brienne wished that she had removed more of her clothes and could feel the warmth of his skin against her own.

Softly, she ran her fingers through the coarse red hair on his chest, feeling the solid muscles beneath.  His nipples were the same color as his lips, a pale pinkish hue.  His body was alluring: broad and thick and distinctly masculine.  Brienne felt almost soft and feminine laying next to him.  She enjoyed the chance to gaze at him, to touch him without fear of him seeing her so undone by her eager curiosity.  There were all sorts of jagged scars on his chest, too many to count, though her eyes grazed them all.  His body was as marked as hers, if not more so, from years and years of hard fighting.  She let herself wonder what life was like for him, growing up beyond the wall.  She tried to picture him as a child, but could only succeed in imagining a miniaturized version of himself, beard and all.  It made her smile.

Her smile faded quickly however with the sudden realization that she needed to quit lallygagging.  She needed to get up and get out of his tent before the other members of their camp awoke.  She did not think she could bear it if Sansa or Pod or any of the others knew she had spent the night with Tormund, especially because they would jump to conclusions that were simply not true.  She was still a maid, after all, and she didn’t want them thinking she had done anything sordid.  And with a wildling, no less.

Ever so slowly, and somewhat regretfully, she slid herself from Tormund’s arms.  She was instantly cold, a shiver traveling up her spine.  Sitting up, she turned to look back at him and held her breath, praying he would not stir.  Thankfully, he did not.  She did not think she could face him at the present moment, not wanting to explain why she had to leave the tent _now._  She pulled the furs back up around him before crawling to the entrance of the tent.  As silently as possible, she tugged her gambeson and boots on.  Brienne peeked out the flaps of his tent and from what she could see, no one was awake and out of their tent.  She breathed a sigh of relief.  No one would see her leave his tent.  Thank the gods.

It appeared as though it had snowed for much of the night and the camp was covered in several inches of fresh powder.  She eased herself out of the tent slowly and silently, turning back to gaze one more time at Tormund’s sleeping frame.  For a second, she yearned to be back nestled and warm in his arms.  Perhaps she would have woke him with a soft kiss and he would wrap his arms around her and tell her what a damn fine morning it was because she was there...

Brienne gently closed the tent flaps behind her, pushing the silly fantasy from her head with a sigh.  There wasn’t time for such imprudence. Standing up, she straightened her gambeson and smoothed her hair, trying to rid herself of any signs of her transgression, only to turn and see Jon standing to her left, in the midst of packing up his tent, his eyes growing wide at the sight of her.

Brienne froze.

Jon looked from her to Tormund’s tent to back at her before a wry smile broke out on his young face.  Brienne felt like the ground had dropped out from beneath her feet, the color draining from her face.  This was exactly what she was trying to avoid by sneaking out of Tormund’s tent at dawn.

“I didn’t- I mean, it’s not- It’s not what it looks like,” she stammered.

“Really?” Jon asked, raising an eyebrow, the smirk never leaving his lips.  “It looks like you spent the night in Tormund’s tent.”

“Shhh!” Brienne exclaimed in a panicked voice, stepping closer to Jon and lowering her voice.  “I would appreciate your discretion in this matter,” she pleaded despairingly.  Brienne couldn’t stop herself from babbling nervously now that her secret sleepover with Tormund was no longer a secret anymore, “Nothing even happened! I was cold. It started snowing and I-”

“It’s alright,” Jon interrupted her, his voice softening as a wistful look appeared in his eyes. “I understand.  Believe me, I understand.”  The pain on his face caused Brienne to pause, forgetting her own panic for a moment.  Her brow furrowed as she suddenly recalled the rumors she had heard at Castle Black.  Rumors that Jon had broken his oath to the Night’s Watch and taken a wildling lover.  A lover that had been murdered in spite by the Brothers of the Watch.  Her heart went out to him.

“My condolences for your loss,” she said quietly.

He looked away from her and Brienne could see the muscle in his jaw tighten.  In the silence that stretched between them, Brienne began to worry she had misspoken and overstepped her bounds by acknowledging his grief.

“Just don’t- don’t hurt him.  He’s lost enough already,” Jon said eventually.  Brienne was stunned by the seriousness she saw in Jon eyes, by how much it was evident that he cared for Tormund.  She did not know what to say to that.  She had never considered the idea that she could hurt Tormund.  But she could, couldn’t she?  And so easily too.  The way he fawned over her.  She had all the power.  It was a burdensome realization.

“I’ll try,” she mumbled but Jon had already turned away from her, returning to packing up his tent.  Brienne felt a pressure build in her chest.  Here she was, already ashamed of being with Tormund, trying to sneak from his tent to avoid the embarrassment of being seen with him.  And here was Jon, aching from losing the one he loved and trying to protect his friend from a similar pain.

She was awful, just awful.

Brienne strode to her tent, ducking down and disappearing inside the cramped space, needing to be alone.   A sick feeling of shame twisted in her stomach.  She closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her face.  She remained like that for a long moment, wrestling with the conflicted feelings tearing inside of her.

She should not have been embarrassed to be caught with Tormund.

But she was.

She should not have snuck from his tent like she felt she had done something wrong.

But she had.

She should not regret kissing him or spending the night in his tent.

But, she realized suddenly, she did.  

Not because it wasn’t wonderful.  Not because Tormund wasn’t absolutely perfect.  But because it was so overwhelming, the weight of it all, heavy on her chest.  Tormund was completely enamored with her.  And there was no possible way that she wouldn’t hurt him.  She probably already had, sneaking out of his tent before he woke.  And if she hadn’t hurt him, she would soon.  He would be so disappointed when he got to know the real Brienne, instead of whatever idealized image he had concocted of her.  She did not deserve his affection.

Brienne took a deep breath, her hands dropping from her face, shoving her feelings deep down within herself.  She was leaving for Riverrun soon and could put this all behind her.  Clenching her jaw, she reached for her belt and strapped Oathkeeper to her side.  She gathered her armor in her hands and left her tent.  After waking Podrick, he helped to strap the cold pieces of metal to her body.  The frigidness of the armor matched her mood.  They worked together, silently, to tear down the tents and pack their saddlebags.  Pod knew his lady well enough by now to not pester her when she was in a mood like this.  

Sansa woke soon after, and the three of them sat by the fire for a breakfast of cold mutton, bread, and cheese.  Jon joined them as well.   No one seemed to be in a particularly chatty mood, the responsibilities of the future weighing on all of them, and the relentless cold subduing them even further.

Brienne’s eyes kept darting to Tormund’s tent, anxious for when he would emerge, what he would say, what he would do.  Unable to stand it just waiting there, she finished her food quickly and stood.

“My lady?” Podrick asked, looking up at her.

“I’m going to check on the horses. Finish your breakfast and then we’ll go. We have a long journey ahead of us.”  With that, she turned and left the warmth of the campfire, grabbing her saddlebags as she left.  The thick snow crunched beneath her boots as she made her way to where they had tied the horses for the night.  She could hear the murmur of Sansa’s voice and then Jon’s reply, but she could not make out their hushed words. She silently prayed to the gods that Jon would keep her troublesome secret.  

The horses were fine.  They were hearty beasts with thick coats, able to withstand the cold and snow.  Brienne dropped the heavy saddlebag on the snow before running her hands along her stallion’s back, brushing the light dusting of snow away.  The horse snorted, flicking it’s long black tail. “You’re lucky, you know,” she said softly and the stallion moved his head to look at her, its ears twitching.   “We just bring you a mare in heat and you have your fun and then it’s over. No mess. No fuss.”  She rubbed the soft fuzzy part of it’s nose and the horse nudged at her with his long head.  Brienne sighed.  “It could be worse though.  I could be a mare.”  Brienne made a disgusted face, recalling the times in her life when she had seen horses mating.  It was unpleasant, to say the least, and did not look at all enjoyable for the female.  With images like that in her head, it was no wonder Brienne was afraid of anything having to do with sex.

Turning from the horse, she reached for the saddlebags and heaved them off the ground.  With a grunt, she swung them up and over the stallion’s back.  He stomped his hoof and snorted again.  “Shush,” she murmured as she struggled to adjust the heavy leather bags on the horse’s back.  She heard the crunch of snow behind her and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Pod, come help me with this,” she called, too busy with what she was doing to look over her shoulder at the squire.

But it wasn’t her squire.  Of course it wasn’t.  

Tormund appeared on the other side of the horse, a wide smile on his bearded face.  “Good morrow, Brienne,” he beamed at her.  If he was bothered that she had slipped from his tent before he woke, he did not show it.

She did not return his smile.  He pulled on the saddlebag and buckled it easily in place, before striding around the stallion towards her.  Tormund moved to her, reaching out a hand to take hers.

Brienne stepped back, gritting her teeth, her blue eyes steely.

Tormund frowned, his forehead wrinkling in confusion.  “What is it?” he asked gravely.

She said nothing, stonewalling him completely.  She turned from him and finished fastening the other side of the saddlebags.  Her hands trembled and she hoped he did not notice.

“Brienne,” he murmured, imploring her to look at him, to talk to him.

She did not give in.  She remained turned away from him, ignoring him, concentrating on checking and rechecking the horse’s tack.

“Brienne,” he said again, though this time it was a growl.  He grabbed her arm and pulled her around to face him.  She was surprised by his boorishness, by the fire in his eyes.  She had no time to say anything, however, for he reached his hand up to the back of her neck and yanked her towards him. The kiss was a crash of lips and tongue and teeth.  

This was a different sort of sparring.  

He was prodding, insistent, rough. She pushed her hands against his chest even as she felt herself kissing him back, thrusting her tongue in his mouth, giving in to the passion.  His hand curled into a fist in her short blonde hair, pulling her closer, while his other arm wrapped around her waist and held her tight against him, never letting up on the relentless onslaught of his mouth against hers.  Despite herself, her hands moved from pushing him away to tugging him closer.  She couldn’t breathe.  She couldn’t think.

There was just his hands, his mouth, his body against hers.

Until she heard the sounds of footsteps approaching.  Brienne tore herself from him and shoved him roughly away.  He stumbled back and stared at her, completely dumbfounded.  They were both panting, his face was red and hers likely was as well.

The confusion left his face and was replaced by a deep frown as Sansa and Pod moved closer.  The bitter look in his eyes revealed that he understood.  It had just dawned on him that Brienne did not want anyone knowing about them.  She was embarrassed, ashamed, and that was why she had left his tent at dawn, why she was acting so strange, why she was pushing him away.

Tormund slowly shook his head at her, the sadness in his eyes causing a wave of guilt to wash over Brienne.  Then he turned and disappeared through the snowy trees just as Sansa and Pod reached her.  She almost called out his name but she bit down on her lip instead, tasting blood.  

They were completely unaware that Tormund had been there seconds before, Pod struggling to carry his saddlebags and Sansa looking at her quizzically.

“Are you alright?” Sansa asked, no doubt noticing the pained look on her face.

Brienne nodded, not meeting her eyes and grateful for the distraction of Podrick needing help lifting and strapping the saddlebags to his horse. The squire did not seem to notice how clumsy she was, how distracted.  Brienne used the extra time it was taking her to attach the saddlebags to attempt to compose herself.  Once they were secured, Pod busied himself untying the horses while Brienne took a deep breath.

She turned to Sansa and asked, “Are you sure you’ll be alright?  We could still send a raven.”

Sansa shook her head, “You have to go.  You have to convince my uncle to aid us.”

Brienne nodded, knowing Sansa would say that, but still needing to ask one last time.  

“Safe travels,” Sansa said with a somber smile. “We’ll see each other soon.”

Pod handed Brienne the reins to her horse and then awkwardly pulled himself on to his horse.  Brienne thumbed the leather rein in her hand, not wanting to leave like this.  Not wanting that dismal look in his eyes to haunt her the entire journey South.  

But she didn’t have a choice.

“Safe travels to you as well,” Brienne replied after she was settled on her horse.  Sansa stepped back to let them pass. Brienne tapped the horse’s sides with her heels, spurring the stallion forward.  Pod followed after her.  They were on their way.

Brienne couldn’t help but look back, scanning the snowy forest for one last glimpse of Tormund’s red hair.

She saw no sign of him.


	9. chapter nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne arrives at Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are officially past the show, people! ANYTHING can happen! Give me your suggestions in the comments. I love hearing from all of you. It keeps me writing!!! All you readers are seriously AWESOME!!! This chapter flowed so easily. IT'S BACK ON!!  
> More chapters coming soon! Comments & critiques always appreciated!

The return journey from Riverrun, sans horses, took Brienne and Podrick nearly a fortnight.  Brienne feared for the safety of Sansa, knowing that the siege of Winterfell would not be delayed.  She would not make it to Winterfell in time for the battle and had failed to secure the men of Tully. If Jon and the free folk had managed to defeat the Boltons with such a limited army, it would be a miracle.  And so she feared the worst.

As she crested the hill that looked out upon Winterfell and the surrounding lands, the smell was the first thing to hit her.  It reeked of rotting flesh, blood and death.  She nearly choked on the stench and pressed a hand to her mouth and nose.  She stood frozen in her tracks, trying to suppress the bile that rose in her throat.  Pod coughed and sputtered before turning from the horrendous sight of it all and vomiting in the snow.  Even the icy temperatures of the North could not stop the piles and piles of bodies, horse and man alike, from beginning to turn.  Rivers of blood snaked through the snow.   It seemed to stretch on for miles.  Brienne had never seen anything like it.  How anyone had rose from that battle to claim victory was beyond her.

But even from the distance, through the horrific aftermath of battle, she could see hope.  Gone were the banners of the flayed man and in their place the unmistakable white flags adorned with direwolves hung from walls of Winterfell. They had prevailed. Somehow, they had prevailed.

“Pod, are you alright?” Brienne said, turning to her squire.  “There is nothing to fear.  The Boltons have been defeated.”

“Aye, my lady,” Podrick managed to mutter, still clutching his stomach.  It was the most enthusiastic response he could muster.  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and struggled to stand straight again.  Brienne sent him a sympathetic look.  

“It’s awful,” she acknowledged solemnly, before gesturing over the battlefield, “but look, the men are burning the bodies.  Soon there will be no trace of the House of Bolton.”  

Turning back to the bloody field, she steeled her jaw and continued, “Come on, Pod.  If we walk quickly, we should reach Winterfell before sundown.”  With that, she started down the hill.

-

Winterfell was a grand castle, even splattered in blood and burnt by the Boltons.  No one looking at its gates could deny its magnificence, Brienne included.  The gate stood open now as men of the North and the free folk worked together rid of the castle of its previous inhabitants and restore it to its former glory.

Brienne stopped at the gate to identify herself to one of the guards.   Before she could so much as say “of Tarth,” the guard waved her through. “Lady Stark’s been expectin’ you,” he told her, “Best make your way to the Great Hall.”  Brienne nodded, relieved to hear that Sansa was alive and well.  Despite their exhaustion, her and Podrick moved swiftly to the courtyard.  Brienne hoped that Sansa’s brother was alive as well.  It would be too cruel for her to reunited with Jon only to quickly lose him again.  And she hoped, deep in her heart, that Tormund had survived the battle as well.  He was a skilled fighter, of that she had no doubt.  But how anyone could have walked away from the battlefield she had just passed was nearly unimaginable.  Her eyes scanned the faces of the many free folk that dotted the court yard.  His bright red hair was nowhere to be seen. Brienne began to feel a tightness in her chest.  He should be here, shouldn’t he?  He should be here with his people in the courtyard of Winterfell.  

“I think that’s the Great Hall,” Podrick said, pointing to the large structure to the left of them.  Brienne nodded and the two of them made their way to it.  He would probably be in the Great Hall, Brienne assured herself, drinking mead and telling lewd jokes to Jon and the other men, with barely a scratch on him.

The Great Hall was full of people; drinking, eating, celebrating.  Even though the battle had ended days ago, the celebrating continued unabatedly. She heard shouts of “Long live the King of the North!”  It seemed as though things had turned out well for Jon and Sansa and the houses of the North had rallied behind them.  The brother and sister were seated at a raised table on the far end of the hall.  Brienne squinted her eyes and scanned the room.  There was no sign of Tormund.  Where was he?

“There,” Brienne muttered to Pod, gesturing to the other end of the hall where Sansa and Jon sat.  She started towards the Lady Stark.  Podrick strained to see over the crowd and followed after her.  There were men from nearly every house in the North in the Hall, insignias on their armor from houses she recognized and many she did not.  As she drew closer, even in the dim candlelight, she could see the bruises and cuts that marred Jon’s face.  It had been a harrowing battle, undoubtedly.

Sansa stood when Brienne grew closer, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.  The Lady pushed her chair back and quickly made her way over Brienne.  “You’re back!” she exclaimed.  

Brienne smiled back, “Yes and you are back in your home.  I am sorry I was not here to aid in the battle.”  

Sansa shook her head, dismissing Brienne’s apology with a wave of her hand, “You did your duty.”

Brienne nodded, not convinced, but knowing not what else to say.  She was distracted by the nagging thought at the back of her mind.  Brienne opened her mouth, desperation giving her courage to ask the question of what had become of Tormund.  But abruptly, she shut it, when Littlefinger appeared by Sansa’s side, a conniving smile on his lips. Brienne instinctively reached for the hilt of Oathkeeper and glared down at the little man.  What was _he_ doing here?

“Ah, Brienne of Tarth, “ he said in his slimy voice. “How nice of you to show up finally.  Has Sansa told you how it was the men of Vale that came to her rescue and defeated the Boltons?”

Brienne looked from Littlefinger to Sansa, seeing from the pinched look on Sansa’s face that what he said was true.  She felt a sinking feeling in her stomach.  If she had succeeded in convincing the Blackfish to aid in the battle to retake Winterfell, then Sansa would not have needed to call on Littlefinger for assistance.  She had utterly failed Sansa, regardless of what the young lady said.  

“No,” Brienne said stiffly, turning her stern gaze back to Littlefinger, “She did not.”  She glared at him, and he back at her, while the hand she had on Oathkeeper tightened menacingly.

“Brienne, you must be exhausted from the journey.  Let me show you to the kitchen for some bread and stew,” Sansa interrupted, leading Brienne to the hallway in the back of the Hall and away from Littlefinger.  He watched them go with a smirk on his lips.

“I had to,” Sansa murmured to Brienne as the two of them left the Great Hall, Podrick in tow. “It was the only way.  Jon wouldn’t wait for more men. He fell right into Ramsay's trap.  If I hadn’t…” She paused, the look on her face revealing the terrible possibility of what would have happened if Littlefinger had not answered her plea for help.

“I understand,” Brienne replied in a solemn voice.  She did understand why Sansa had done what she had done.  But it didn’t make her own failure to help Sansa sting any less.  And despite the victory in reclaiming Winterfell, there were many more dangers that Sansa needed to be protected from.  Littlefinger included.  As if sensing what Brienne was thinking, Sansa muttered, “I’ll be rid of him as soon as I can.”

By then, they had reached the kitchen.  Delicious smells wafted from beneath the wooden door.  Brienne’s stomach rumbled loudly.  It had been days since she had had a hot meal.  

“It smells good,” Podrick exclaimed, his eager voice revealing just how hungry he was.  

Sansa nodded at him.  “Get yourself something to eat,” she said to the squire and Pod quickly obeyed, moving past the two women to enter the kitchen.  They watched him go, the door banging shut behind him.  Brienne didn’t move.   

Instead, she looked down at Sansa.  They were alone and Brienne could now ask the question that she so desperately needed answered.  And yet, if she were to ask and the answer was to be that Tormund had not made it…   If he was dead…  Brienne feared she would not be able to bear it.  Her throat felt tight just at the thought of it.  She hesitated, shifting her weight from foot to foot, and struggling to find the words.

“What is it?” Sansa asked quietly, looking up at her with concern in her eyes.

“I’ve been through the courtyard and the Hall and I haven’t seen…” Brienne took a shaky breath and pushed on despite the heat she felt rise in her cheeks, “Tormund.  Did he…?”  She couldn’t finish the question and lowered her eyes to the floor, not wanting Sansa to see the emotion that brimmed in her eyes.

The lighthearted laugh that escaped from Sansa’s mouth filled Brienne with a deep sense of relief.  He was alive.  Sansa never would have laughed at a man’s death.  The auburn haired lady covered her mouth with her slender hand and quickly apologized.  “I’m sorry, Brienne.  I don’t mean to laugh.  I just never knew you cared so much about _that wildling fellow with the beard._ ”  Despite the teasing, Brienne felt herself grinning along with Sansa.  He was alive.  Tormund was alive!

“I don’t _care_ about him,” Brienne protested futilely. “But if anyone is going to best him in battle, it is going to me be.”

“Yes.  Of course,” Sansa replied, her smile indicating that she did not believe Brienne for a second.  “Last time I saw him, he was drinking mead in the Hall.  Perhaps he stepped outside for some air?”

“Yes, perhaps.” Brienne breathed, shifting from foot to foot again, though this time it was due to the fact she was fighting the urge to run down the hall and find him.   When she did find him, she had no idea what she would say, but she wasn’t thinking about that now.   She just yearned to see his handsome face again, even if he was angry at her because of how she had treated him before she left for Riverrun.  She _had_ to see him.  She had to apologize and hopefully he would forgive her and she would see that dopey smile on his face again.  She glanced down the hall and then back at Sansa, biting her lip.

Sansa chuckled, amazed to see Brienne act in such a silly manner.  “Well,” she said finally, “Go on then!”

With her Lady’s blessing, Brienne turned on her heel and walked away as fast as she could without breaking into a run.  She did have _some_ dignity to maintain after all.

Podrick took that moment to emerge from the kitchen, his arms carrying baked rolls and mead and bowls of stew.  “Where is she off to?” he mumbled, his mouth full of bread as he watched Brienne disappear down the hall.

“Nowhere,” Sansa replied with a smirk.  “Eat your stew.”


	10. chapter ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was not the reunion she had imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOO! Hope you like this chapter! I had fun writing it!  
> Thanks so much for all the great comments and suggestions!! Keep 'em coming! I love all of you!

Brienne burst into the twilight of the courtyard, the doors banging behind her.  Several men stopped what they were doing to stare at her and the loud noise she had caused in her carelessness.  Feeling embarrassed, she nodded politely and then turned to gently close the doors behind her. What had come over her?  She was acting positively foolish.  Brienne took a breath to calm herself, straightening her belt before walking confidently through the courtyard.  She knew they were likely staring at her as she passed but stares were something that the tall woman was used to.  She didn’t care.  

She wanted, nay _needed,_ to see Tormund.  She had had much time to think on her journey to Riverrun and back.  And seeing Jaime had helped her to realize something.  Despite her fervent attempts to deny it, deep down in her heart, she carried a flame for Jaime.  It was easier for her, wasn’t it, to love men like Renly and Jaime that would never ever return her affection.  She could pine and dream and hope, all the while knowing she was safe in her fantasy.  She would never get hurt by them, except for the pain she caused herself by loving men that would never love her back.  It was time, she had realized on the long journey back to Winterfell, to put aside her childish notions of the honor of unrequited love and to step into the risky, messy, complicated world of real love.  She knew she would always care for Jaime, but she couldn’t let herself long for him anymore.  It was futile.  She wanted something genuine, some tangible. She wanted to try. And she wanted this, she had also come to the stunning realization, with the gruff, redheaded, bearded man named Tormund.  Was it a mistake?  Maybe.  But it could not be any worse than spending years of her life with her heart under lock and key.

Brienne knew not where she was going and the grounds of Winterfell were extensive.   She’d be lucky if found him before the setting sun made wandering around the castle without getting lost all but impossible.  He couldn’t have gone far!  Where was he?

She needn’t have fret however.  Turning ‘round a corner, she came face to, well, _back_ with the fire kissed wildling.  He was standing with his feet apart, humming to himself, and pissing on the snowy ground.

It was not the reunion she had imagined.

Brienne stood there, frozen, completely at loss for what to do.  He finished, thankfully, and took a moment to tuck himself back into his pants before turning around.  He was just as stunned by her sudden appearance and stood there staring at her.  There was a beat and then a hearty booming laugh erupted from deep in his chest.  “Lady Brienne of Tarth!  Were you peeping on me?” he teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Brienne blanched and shook her head, “No, I was just…”

He laughed again and strode over to her, stumbling on the way and barely making it to her without landing flat on his face.  Gods!  He was drunk. And his face looked puffy, bruised, but it was hard to tell in the low light.  “I don’t mind if you look.” he said, winking at her.  “ I just don’t want to scare you.  I doubt a Southron woman such as yourself has ever seen a cock as b-”

“Tormund!” she growled, the sharpness in her voice cutting him off.  He blinked at her, looking slightly dazed.  

No, this was not the reunion she had imagined.

Tormund reached to his belt and pulled at the waterskin that was tied there.  Once he freed it, he brought it promptly to his lips.  Brienne narrowed her eyes.  She was certain that it was not carrying water and it didn’t appear that he needed to drink more.  She watched him try to take a gulp.  A look of frustration passed over his face.  He turned the waterskin upside down and sighed as a few measly drops leaked out.  It was empty. Tormund frowned, looking utterly defeated.

It was Brienne’s turn to laugh now, the pouty look on his face making her chuckle heartily.  She felt her irritation at him fade easily. She reached for his hand.  “Come on,” she said, gently tugging his arm.  His sullenness disappeared in an instant, a sloppy grin replacing the frown beneath his beard.

“Where?” he slurred, squeezing her hand.

“Well, where are your quarters?” Brienne replied matter-of-factly.

He looked around for a moment, as if needing to orientate himself to his surroundings.  Eventually he lifted a hand and pointed to a nearby building next to the Great Hall. “There,” he said, “second floor, end of the hall.”  Brienne’s eyes followed his finger to gaze at the structure.  When she turned back to Tormund, he was gazing at her as if he couldn’t believe she was real.  

“When did you get to Winterfell?” he mumbled, using his free arm to clumsily pull her against him in a tight embrace.  In his drunken state, it seemed to have just dawned on him that she was really there, in the flesh, after being gone for so many days.  He didn’t seem to be in the state of mind to remember that their parting had not been pleasant. Tormund pressed his lips to her neck and cooed her name.  “I missed you,” he mumbled.  “I ached for you.”

Brienne took a slow breath, amazed by his words and enjoying the feeling of him nuzzling to her.  She relished his touch, even though he was in such a blundering drunken state.  She had longed for him as well.  But she knew if she didn’t get him to his bed, and soon, that he likely would be spending the night passed out in one of the stables.   

She wriggled from his arms and implored him, “Come on, Tormund. Let’s get you to bed.”  He grumbled when she pulled herself from him but made no other complaint as she pulled him toward his quarters.  He was swaying so much, she had to stop to pull one of his arms over her shoulder as she wrapped her other arm around his waist.  He leaned against her and despite her own size and strength, she had to struggle to keep him upright.  If he tumbled to the ground, she didn’t think she would be able to get him back on his feet.  

She had to practically coax him up the stairs one at a time but somehow they made it to his room.  She shoved the door open with her foot and half carried, half dragged Tormund into the large, but sparsely furnished room.   There was a table, chair, nightstand, and bed.  It was dark in his room, but the lanterns in the hallway cast just enough light for her to see.  She was panting slightly as she pushed Tormund to the bed.  He sat down on to the mattress with a thud and she collapsed beside him, wondering if she would have felt guilty if she had just left him where she had found him. Yes, she would have.  Damn.

Tormund wasted no time wrapped his arms around her again and pulling her close to him.  He didn’t seem to realize that she was still wearing her armor and she could barely feel his arms around her.  Brienne sighed.  In his state, he probably wouldn’t even notice if he was hugging a statue instead of her.  Disentangling his arms from around her again, she asked, “Do you have a candle?”

“Aye,” he replied after he contemplated the question for too long than was necessary, “on the table.”  He reached for her again, but she stood and walked to the table.  He let out a defeated sigh but made no attempt to follow.  After fumbling for a moment in the dark, she found the candle and stepped into the hall to use the lanterns to light it.  Returning to his room, she closed the door behind her.  Turning around, she chuckled to see Tormund lying on the bed.  He had not moved from where he was sitting.  He had only flopped back, his legs still hanging over the edge of the bed and his arms stretched out.  She moved closer to him, half expecting him to be passed out from the drink finally getting the best of him.  She put the candle on his nightstand and he sat up, too fast, and swayed slightly with a pained look in his eyes.

It was then, in the warm yellow glow of the candle, that she really saw his face and the toll the battle had taken on him.  A gasp escaped her lips. His nose had been slashed and broken.   Dark bruises stretched across his cheeks and under his eyes.  The cut appeared as though it had been crudely stitched up. There were other cuts and bruises too that dotted his face and neck and disappeared beneath his furs.  She worried what other wounds he had sustained.  No wonder he had been drinking.  The ale would surely dull the pain.

“Tormund, your nose...” she murmured, bending over to gingerly touch his cheek. He looked up at her for a moment, as if as stunned by her kindness as she was by his injuries.  Then he frowned and pushed her hand away, suddenly somber.  “It’s fine,” he mumbled, looking away from her.  “I’m fine.  The battle is over.  We won.  Jon is the fucking King.”  His voice was angry, cold.  Brienne was dismayed by his sudden change in mood.  She swallowed hard.  She wanted to press him further but she held her tongue.  Now was not the time.

Tormund bent over then, his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands.  She moved to sit beside him on the bed.  She wanted to reach out and touch him but kept her hands at her sides.  She understood, or at least she thought she did.  He had been wounded, more than just physically, from the siege.  She knew what it was like to survive something awful, something that you felt you shouldn’t have survived.  Absently, she reached up to touch the jagged scars that just barely peaked from the collar of her armor.   Sometimes it felt like she hadn’t escaped and this was all a dream.  At any moment, she would wake up and be back in that pit.  The bear's claws would sink into her flesh and he would tear her to pieces with his teeth.  She had recurring nightmares of just that.  

She knew what it was like to look death in the eyes and accept it, all the while stubbornly refusing to stop fighting.  But after that, after coming face to face with her own mortality, she was haunted by it.

Brienne swallowed nervously before speaking up.  “I don’t know what happened out there, Tormund.  I don’t know what you’ve been though…” Her voice began to quiver but she was boldened by the fact that most of this he likely wouldn’t remember tomorrow. “But I’m so relieved that you’re alive, that you kept fighting, that you survived.  I couldn’t find you when I got here and I was so terrified that you were dead. I was terrified that I had lost you just when I realized that I wanted to really _be_ with you…”

He sat up and looked at her, awe in his bleary eyes.  Reaching out, he gently wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb.  “You’re crying,” he breathed.  Whatever darkness had overcome him before was gone now, at least for the time being.

“No, I’m not” Brienne said, shaking her head, even as the tears slipped from her eyes.  She brushed them roughly away.

“Alright,” Tormund replied with a weak smile, acquiescing to her desire to pretend she was not currently crying.  Or perhaps he was merely too inebriated to argue with her.  He was certainly too drunk to really comprehend what she had just confessed to him.  And despite her tears, she felt a sort of relief.  Saying it out loud, admitting it to him and herself, felt _good._

Brienne took a breath and calmed herself, before turning to Tormund and stating, “Enough of that.  I’m exhausted.  You’re exhausted.  Take off your muddy boots and lay down before you pass out.”

“Yes, my lady,” Tormund said jovially before promptly obeying.  He leaned over to tug at the wrappings on his fur boots, quickly becoming frustrated by their stubborn refusal to loosen in his fumbling hands.  Brienne sighed, more out of humor than annoyance, and knelt in front of him. Her fingers moved deftly to untie the laces before helping to tug the boots off.  She was reminded of the night they shared in his tent, when he had helped her to remove her own boots.  The memory caused a small smile to appear on her lips.

When she stood up, Tormund was quick to put his hands on her hips and tug her towards him so she was standing between his knees.  She didn’t resist. He gazed up at her, the haze of the alcohol doing nothing to dampen the desire in his eyes for her.  He breathed out slowly, his longing for her blatant on his bearded face.

“Are you ever going to let me under that armor?” Tormund asked huskily, rapping his knuckles along the cool metal of her chest plate.

“I’m trying,” she replied softly.  This time he allowed her to gently touch a hand to his face.

He seemed mollified by that answer and let her go, his arms dropping to his sides.  He let out a loud yawn and she could see that his eyes were heavy with sleep.  “Lay down, you foolish man,” Brienne laughed, pushing him on to the bed.  He offered no resistance and laid back, swinging his legs over to rest on the bed.

“Are you going to stay?” he mumbled, not waiting for her answer before closing his eyes.  Brienne thought for a moment and opened her mouth to reply, until she heard his breath slow as he quickly fell asleep.  She watched him for a moment, his face softening in his slumber.  He looked so peaceful when he slept, in spite of the purplish bruises that stained his skin. She reached out and brushed a bit of his copper hair from his forehead. He stirred slightly at her touch, but did not awaken.

Brienne leaned over to blow the candle out.  Instantly, the room was plunged into darkness.   She could hear nothing but his steady inhaling and exhaling.  It was comforting in its repetition.  “Seven help us,” she whispered.  She waited for a moment, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, until she could see the outline of his fur-clad body.  Then she turned on her heel and left his room.  Out in the hallway, she slowly closed the door behind her.  The rumbling in her stomach reminded her of her hunger and she set off back to the Great Hall, hoping Pod had saved some stew for her.

No, it was not the reunion she had imagined.  But maybe it was something better.  

It was something real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that Tormund has a little bit of trauma from the Battle of the Bastards. I mean, wouldn't you? He has never been in a battle like before. And I think that he panicked. When they were closing in around him and he tried to break the line, but they cut his arm and pushed him back. Everywhere his people were dying and he couldn't do anything! He told them to retreat and then they nearly trampled Jon. I think Tormund was terrified. Not to mention, Lord Umber almost had him! DAMN! What do you guys think? Does that make sense?  
> Also, I've been thinking a lot about Tormund's daughters. Where are they? Did they escape hardhome? How old are they? What are their names? In the book, Tormund is older and has four sons and one daughter named Munda. The show is different, obviously, but I like the idea of keeping that name and then trying to come up with another one for his other daughter. Any ideas?


	11. chapter eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reunion: take two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like an abrupt ending to make you all love me! HAR  
> But seriously, the chapter was getting too long and I had to end it somewhere.  
> More chapters coming soon! Comments & critiques always appreciated!

By the time Brienne woke the following day, the sun was high in the sky.  She had slept in. She hadn’t made it to the quarters she had been given until the wee hours of the morning.  And once she had undressed, bathed and relaxed on the bed, a real proper feather bed, she had fallen into a deep, hard sleep.  The journey to Winterfell had not been easy. And even though she was awake now, she made no effort to get up.  The bed was warm and comfortable, even if it was slightly too short for her and she had to bend her knees to avoid her toes from peeking out from the blankets.  She lay there, drifting in and out of sleep, and letting her mind wander.  And it wandered straight to Tormund.  She wondered how he was feeling this morning and what he remembered from last night. He was probably still in bed just as she was.  His quarters were at the other end of the hall, only a few inconsequential steps away.  What would happen if she tiptoed down to his room and slid in bed with him?

Her daydream was interrupted by a light rapping on the door.  For a moment, she wondered if it was Tormund himself and her racy fantasies had somehow summoned him to her.

“It’s me, my lady,” called Pod’s muffled voice from beyond the door.  “I’ve brought some food to break your fast.”

“I’m coming,” she replied as she swiftly pushed the blankets from her and climbed out of bed.  It was drafty in the room, but not nearly as cold as it had been at Castle Black.   She dressed quickly in her pants and linen undershirt, not bothering to lace it all the way up to her neck.  She pulled open the door open to see her squire standing there with a tray in his hands, the smells coming from it causing her mouth to water.  

“Good morrow,” she said, gesturing for him to come inside and place the tray at the small wooden table to the right of the bed.

Pod did as he was told, but not before he gave Brienne a quizzical look.  “Are you ill, my lady?  You’ve slept so late.  And you look flushed.”

“I’m fine,” she said dismissively.  She turned away from him and walked to the wash basin and pitcher on the nightstand.  She poured the water on her hands and splashed it over her face.  Feeling refreshed, and hopefully less pink, she joined Podrick at the table.  He had brought her quite a spread of food and she hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she began to eat.  Everything was delicious, the best food she had had in months. She ate for several minutes before she glanced up and saw Pod looking at her with his big brown eyes, a slight frown on his lips.

She swallowed before asking, somewhat annoyed, “What is it?”

“It’s just… are you sure you’re alright?  It’s not like you to sleep in.  And we’ve hardly missed a day of practice since you started training me,” he explained.  Ahh, his training.  It had slipped her mind.  She had been working with him nearly every morning and night for weeks now.  How had she forgotten today?  She felt a pang of guilt at her carelessness.

“I’m sorry,” she spoke seriously.  “I’ll make it up to you.  We can train for two hours tonight." Podrick smiled at her reply, clearly holding no grudge.  He was simply worried about her. Brienne nodded at him before returning to her breakfast.

“Actually,” Podrick uttered with a groan, “I think I’d prefer if you let me skip tonight’s practice.”

“Oh?” she replied, raising an eyebrow.

He continued, “I got up at dawn and went to the yard looking for you.  His Grace and, uh, Ser Tormund were there, teaching a whole group how to fight.  Stable boys and squires and even a bunch of wildlings.”

“Free folk,” Brienne corrected absently, trying to wrap her head around the idea that Tormund had been as drunk as he was last night and was still somehow up and training at dawn.  It amused her that the ever polite Podrick was calling Tormund a Ser. He was no Ser. But he probably would get a kick out of hearing Pod call him that.

“Aye, free folk, I mean.” Pod said with a nod.  “King Jon says my footwork is getting pretty good,” he said proudly, before adding somewhat sullenly, “But Ser Tormund says I’m not nearly fast enough.”  It annoyed Brienne slightly that Tormund was critiquing her squire that she had been training for months. He wasn’t exactly wrong though, Pod was still sometimes slow and clumsy with a sword, but he was getting better.

“You’re improving quickly,” she told Podrick honestly.  “And you held your own against the Bolton men.  We’ll keep practicing.”  The boy seemed to hang on every word of her praise, his chest puffing up a bit with pride.  She couldn’t help but smile at her young squire.

“The free folk are good fighters,” Brienne said after a moment. Begrudgingly, she admitted, “You could learn a lot from Tormund.”

Podrick seemed somewhat surprised by her remark but did not argue.  Instead, he reluctantly admitted something of his own.  “He made me spar with a wildl-, er, free folk girl.  She was nearly half my age!”

“And?” Brienne replied, delighted by the idea that Tormund was training girls as well as boys to fight.

Podrick sighed, looking sheepish, “She bested me. _Twice._ ”

“Sounds like you could learn a lot from her as well,” Brienne commented with a chuckle.  “Besides, there is no shame in losing to a girl.  A good fighter’s a good fighter.”

“I know that, my lady,” Podrick replied quickly.  If Brienne had taught him anything during their time together, it was that.

There was a pause in their conversation as Brienne finished her breakfast.  Belly full, she leaned back in her chair.  She needed to get dressed and seek out Sansa. She wanted to find out what her and Jon were planning and how she could best be of service.   And she wanted to find out more about the siege and how many men had been lost fighting for Winterfell.

Looking over at Podrick, who was gathering up her dishes and putting them back on the tray, she suddenly asked, “What have you heard about what happened at the battle here?  Have you spoken to any of the other squires?”

“No, my lady,” Podrick said with a shake of his head.  “But I did overhear two Knights from Bear Island talking about it.”  Brienne sat up, listening intently.

“Ramsay trapped them.  They were completely surrounded by a pike phalanx,” Pod explained solemnly.  “The Bolton forces were crushing them.  It was chaos.  Nearly a thousand wildlings died.  If the men of the Vale hadn’t broken the line, the rest of them likely wouldn’t have made it.  They would have _died,_ all of them.”  Brienne was stunned.  Podrick looked bewildered just recounting what he had heard.

“What became of Ramsay? Lord Umber?” Brienne queried, her brow furrowed.

Podrick shrugged, “I didn’t hear what happened to Ramsay.  Just that he’s dead.  But Lord Umber…” The boy looked slightly sick.

“What?” Brienne demanded.

“The story is that Tormund killed him…  ripped his throat out with his teeth.”   Brienne sat in shocked silence for a long moment.   They stared at each other trying to come to terms with how horrible the battle at Winterfell had truly been.  “How awful,” she muttered eventually.  It was all she could say.  She understood, at least a little bit more, why Tormund had become so agitated when she had brought up his injuries the night before.

The sound of someone clearing their throat startled both Pod and Brienne.  They turned to the door to discover the source of the noise.

It was Tormund.

He was just standing there, filling the doorway with his large frame, the purplish bruises on his face looking particularly garish in the light of day. He had no doubt heard them talking about him.  Brienne searched his face but he looked eerily expressionless.  The tension in the air was tangible. Podrick squirmed in his seat, nearly dropping the bowl in his hands.

Brienne broke the silence by plainly asking, “Is it true?”

“Aye,” Tormund said flatly.  It was unnerving to see him so reserved.  He didn’t move from the doorway.

“I bit a man’s ear off once,” Brienne offered, her eyes fixed on Tormund.  He turned his head to look at her, a newfound curiosity in his eyes.  

“I’d like to hear that story,” was Tormund’s earnest reply.  

“Would you now?” Brienne murmured with a small smile on her lips.  Tormund couldn't seem to resist her smile and was soon grinning back at her, a flicker of light returning to his eyes.  

“Aye,” he stated with an eager nod.

Podrick looked from Brienne to Tormund and back to Brienne, clearly baffled by their friendly interaction.  It seemed _over-friendly_ to him, not on Tormund’s part, that was to be expected, but on Brienne’s.  Podrick stood awkwardly, lifting the tray in his hands.  “I think, uh, I think I’m going to take this back to the kitchen,” he muttered.  

“Thank you for bringing me something to eat,” Brienne replied in an appreciative voice, though her eyes remained on Tormund. “I’ll come find you… later…” Her voice trailed off.

“Yes my lady,” Pod replied.  He seemed to hesitate for a moment, looking apprehensively from Tormund to Brienne again, before walking towards the door.

Tormund stepped farther into Brienne’s room so he was no longer blocking the exit.  When the squire passed him, Tormund clapped the lad on the shoulder and said with a grin, “Munda’s eager for a rematch, _if_ you’re up for it.”  Podrick nodded, looking rather overwhelmed.  

He glanced once more at Brienne, saying somewhat hesitantly, "I can stay if you would prefer..." 

"Goodbye, Pod," Brienne replied curtly.  The squire nodded and left the room, shaking his head in bewilderment as he disappeared down the hall.

Tormund closed the door behind him with a soft click.  

He turned to look at her now that they were alone and the electricity that crackled between them caused Brienne’s breath to hitch in her throat. Their eyes locked, she stood and faced him as he took a step toward her.  His hungry eyes roamed her face and then slid slowly down her body, making Brienne acutely aware that she was dressed in only her thin linen tunic and pants.  It was the least amount of clothes he had ever seen her in.  Far from immodest however, the clothes covered her completely, save for that fact that she had not laced the shirt snuggly to her neck. It hung open slightly, exposing the hollow of her throat and her collarbones, one of which was considerably marked with angry red scars.  

Brienne gulped, feeling flustered by his lustful gaze, and self-conscious by her marred skin.  She looked down demurely and lifted a hand to her neck to pull the fabric of her shirt closed.

“Don’t-” he pleaded in a low voice.  When she raised her eyes to look back at him, he had moved closer to her, less than arm’s length from her now.  He caught her hand in his, tugging it away from her shirt, before leaning in and touching his lips to the disfiguring mark on her clavicle.  

She gasped.  How could he kiss her there?  The scars were so horrid.  Before she could do or say anything in response, his arm circled her waist and pulled her firmly against him.  Seven hells, it felt good to be in his arms again.

“I missed your smell,” he growled against her neck.  Her smell?  He liked the way she smelled?  Brienne found herself softening at his fervent affection, a smile spreading on her lips.  But she was confused.  She touched her hands to either side of his face, pulling his head up so she could look him in his emerald eyes.  

“You’re not angry with me?” she asked, astonished.

“For what?” he replied dismissively, turning his head to plant kisses down her wrist, his hands sliding greedily along her lower back.

“Tormund, look at me,” she pleaded and he stopped his caresses to comply, hearing the urgency in her voice.  He reached up and covered her hands with his own before pulling them from his face.  He held her hands in his and gave her his undivided attention.  “I’m listening,” he replied with small grin.

She gripped his hands tightly in hers, hesitating for only a moment, before insisting, “You should be mad at me!  I was awful to you before I left for Riverrun.  Just dreadful!” Her face twisted in a frown and her guilt caused her to drop her eyes to the floor. He was silent for a second before his booming laugh filled the room.  She raised her eyes to look at him, utterly shocked by his reaction.

“That’s what you're so upset about?  That?  BAH!  That was weeks ago.  I don’t give a fuck about that.”  He dropped her hands from his and moved his arms around her waist to pull her into him again.  “I don’t care if you don’t want anyone to know.  I’ll be your _dirty little secret,_ ” he whispered lustfully in her ear.

He was lying.  Brienne was sure of it.  He _did_ care.  He just wouldn’t admit it.  “Tormund,” she said again, turning her head to meet his eyes.  She put her hands on his shoulders, squeezing them lightly.  “I don’t want...“ she hesitated, taking a shaky breath before continuing, “... _us_ to be a secret.  It’s just- It’s difficult...”

Tormund pulled back from her somewhat so he could better look at her as she spoke.  She continued on hesitantly, “I’m a highborn woman.  It’s my duty to remain a maiden until I am married.  Noble women marry noble men.  And then they produce heirs to carry on the family name.  It’s- It’s how things are done here.”  Brienne paused, searching his face, trying to see if he understood.  She hadn’t pushed him away because of who he was, but because of who _she_ was.  He considered her words carefully, his brow creased.

After a moment, he asked, “What’s a maiden?”  Brienne was at a loss for how to answer _that_ question, her eyes widening and her cheeks instantly pink.

“What?” Tormund asked playfully, laughing at her reaction to his question. “What is it?” he demanded stubbornly.

“Gods!” Brienne said, a nervous laugh escaping her lips.   “A maiden is… a girl, er, woman that hasn’t… lain with a man.”

Tormund scratched his chin, arching one eyebrow.  “Lain?”

Brienne groaned, feeling flustered and aggravated he wasn’t getting it.  “Lain!  Like laying in a bed… with a man!”  She pleaded at him with her eyes, praying he would get it.  She did not want to go into any more detail. Her whole face was already beet red.

“Does that mean if we fuck standing up, you’ll still be a maiden?” he teased, a proud grin emerging on his face.  He knew what a maiden was!  He was just messing with her!

“You’re terrible!” she cried, pushing him away from her.  He just beamed at her and let himself be pushed away with a laugh.

“I had to punish you a little,” he said with an adorable smirk, sidling up to her again.  Brienne huffed at him and said nothing, trying not to let herself smile back.  She failed.  It didn’t matter though.  She was so relieved he wasn’t angry at her, that he didn’t hold a grudge.  Brienne leaned forward and touched her lips to his. The kiss was soft, chaste, a thanks, but not a promise of more.

When she pulled back, Tormund exhaled slowly, a curious look coming into his eyes.  He was silent for a long moment.  Brienne wished she could hear what he was thinking.  

Eventually, he looked in her eyes and asked sincerely, “That’s what you want then?  To follow your Southron customs?  To do what they say?”  He shook his head and continued on before she could reply.  She didn’t know how she would have replied.  She honestly didn’t know what she wanted, only that them being together would be _difficult._  But not impossible.

His voice took on an angry edge as he pressed on.  “The kneelers that want you to do that are the same ones that have mocked you your entire life! You don’t owe them a fucking thing!”

Brienne was stunned, speechless by his sudden ire.  He had a point though, even if he was making it in such a crude manner.  Tormund dropped his arms from around her and stepped back, his face growing red as his anger grew.

“Are these the same customs that allowed Sansa to be traded from one asshole to the next til she ended up the property of that Ramsay cunt? The same fuckers that called Jon a bastard and sent him to rot at the wall? Kings killing kings!  Families killing families!”  He shook his head again, this time forcefully.  Brienne had never seen him so mad.  She did not know what to do.  The rage in his eyes was striking and terrifying.

“This is the same fucking shit that kept my people on the other side of that wall for thousands of years!  The free folk don’t have Kings.  We don’t have fucking nobles!  We have the swords in our hands and the will to keep fighting, to keep living!” He turned from her then, shoving one of the wooden chairs away from him.  It scraped across the floor before toppling over in a loud crash.  The sound echoed in the room before a heavy silence descended upon them.  

Brienne could hear nothing now but Tormund’s labored breathing and her own blood coursing in her ears.  


	12. chapter twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He greedily licked his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This one was fun to write. Let me know what you think!  
> More chapters coming soon! Comments & critiques always appreciated!

Brienne stared at Tormund’s broad back as he clenched and unclenched his fists.  It was obvious that his anger was about so much more than just her.  It couldn’t have been easy for him... Losing so many of his people, leading what was left of them South of the wall, fighting in battle after horrific battle.  The less than kind welcome the free folk had received from the northerners.  Getting pulled into the aggravating politics of the Seven Kingdoms.  The threat of the White Walkers hanging over them all.  In comparison, her concern over what others would think if she was no longer the Maid of Tarth seemed rather quaint.    

Brienne knew no words to make him feel better, to make things right.  No such words existed. Her bare feet padded softly on the wood floor as she slowly walked towards him. She stood at his back, hesitating only slightly, before reaching her arms around his chest and pulling him to her. She rested her head on his shoulder and said nothing.  She could feel his body shaking with fury but she only held him tighter.  He didn’t pull away.  He didn’t say anything either.

She did not know how long they remained like that; her pressed against his back with her arms snug round him and him fighting a war with his own mind.  Eventually, the tension drained from his body and he relaxed against her, his hands going limp at his sides and his head hanging forward.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.  Brienne said nothing.  She was just relieved that he was no longer so distressed.  She released her grip on him and moved to stand in front of him, taking his face in her hands.  His eyes were lowered.  This time when she kissed him it was anything but chaste.  It was deep, ardent, demanding.  Tormund rose to the challenge, kissing her back passionately, using her lips to distract himself from the agonizing thoughts in his head. He clung to her, finding solace in his boundless desire for her.

This was all that mattered, she found herself thinking unexpectedly.  His lips and his hands and his undivided devotion to her.  Everything else seemed to just fade away into the background.  She wanted to be with him, wholly… and presently.  Brienne pulled back from him slowly.  They gazed at each other, neither attempting to hide their desire for the other.

Brienne whispered, “What if… what if you are my secret.   Just until I can-”  She didn’t get a chance to finish that sentence.  It was all Tormund needed.  If his kisses had been passionate before, now they were downright obscene.  Brienne could hardly stand it, feeling her whole body tingling with pleasure as she pressed it to his.

As they kissed, his large hands slipped underneath the back of her shirt, his fingers trailing up her spine.  Brienne moaned, her fingers tangled in the furs on his chest.  Why was he wearing so much damn fur?  His hands slid forward, moving over her ribs and coming closer to her chest. She could feel that her nipples were already taut and hard, aching to be touched.  And yet, as his hands moved closer, a wave of uneasiness washed over her.  She tensed.  He stopped, pulling back to search her eyes.  She looked away, ashamed of herself and her inability to relax.  She wanted him to touch her. _She did._ But she was terrified of it all the same.

He changed tactics, removing his hands from under her shirt.  Instead, he pulled ever so slowly on the lacing at her neck that kept her shirt fastened.  Brienne found herself holding in a breath.

“You know,” he mused, “if you had been born in my tribe, we all would have respected you, honored you.”

“What?” she gasped, looking from his hands to his face.  Tormund’s cheeks, at least the parts that weren't bruised, were slightly ruddy. His eyes brimmed with lust and mischief. He grinned at her, never ceasing the lazy way in which he gently unlaced her shirt.

“Aye! It’s true!  You would have been the pride of the whole village.  So tall.  So strong.”  Her shirt was undone to her breast bone now and she was sure he was going slip his hands beneath the fabric and touch her.  He did not.  Instead he continued to leisurely tug at the laces. Brienne bit her bottom lip, the anticipation driving her mad.

“Men would have come all the way from the Frostfang Mountains to the Frozen Shore to try to steal you.”

“Steal me?” she asked, her voice wavering slightly.  She was acutely aware of Tormund’s fingers brushing against her skin.

“Yes, that’s how we do it.  Kidnap ya in the middle of the night and take ye for a wife.”

“I would fight.” Brienne snarled, appalled by the free folk’s marriage customs.

Tormund chuckled.  Her shirt was unlaced nearly to her belly button now.  “Of course you would.  Everyone expects you too.  But you would best them all.  Every single one of them.”

“Even you?” she asked, staring in his eyes, becoming intrigued by the story he was telling her.

He smiled.  “Aye.  Even me.  All the other men would give up, move on to lesser women, weaker women.  But not me.  I’d keep fighting.  And I’d keep losing.”  Her shirt was nearly completely unlaced now.  Only one more tug and he could pull the lacing entirely free.  He gazed up at her, his fingers poised to do just that.  “We’d keep fighting, bruising and beating each other, until one day, you’d let me win.”

Brienne balked at that. “I would not!”  He pulled then, the lace coming free from her shirt.  He dropped it on the ground and smiled.  There was nothing keeping her shirt closed now, except for his fingers resting lightly on the hem.  Oh gods.

“You would,” he insisted huskily.  “Cause all the while we’d been fighting, wrestling each other, hurting each other, you woulda been falling in love with me.”  She was awestruck by his words, her mouth falling open.  He covered her open mouth with his own, stealing her breath from her, his hands pushing her shirt open, completely exposing her chest.

Brienne grabbed his hands and pushed them away from her, tugging her shirt closed again.   She pulled back and ended the kiss, her jaw raised defiantly.  

“No,” she said simply.  He gawked at her.

“You first,” she demanded.  He wasn't the only one that could tease.

“Brienne!” he roared, advancing on her.  She stepped back again, her hand clutching the fabric at her chest, as she dared him with her cobalt eyes to take another step forward.  

He let out a surly laugh.  “Never a dull moment with you, is there?”  She just smirked at him.  Tormund was quick to comply now, pulling off his belt and dropping it, and the attached curved sword, to the ground.  He hastily kicked off his boots and pulled the many layers of furs up and over his head until he was standing before her in nothing but his fur trousers. Her eyes went directly to the large bandage on his right bicep.

“You’re hurt” she murmured, her brow furrowed as she took in the other bruises and cuts on his muscular chest.  There were more, many more, since the last time she had laid eyes on his body.

“Just a scratch,” he said quickly, looking her up and down.  “Now you,” he prompted, a wanton look in his eyes.  Brienne chuckled.  He was relentless, wasn’t he?  And, she realized, she wanted him to see.  She wanted him to see her, as daunting as it might be to be half naked in front of him.  She released the grip on the fabric slowly, her fingers trailing down her neck, over her chest and to the hem of her shirt.  He was holding his breath now, his eyes boring into her.  Agonizingly slow, just to torment him further and, to be honest,  because she was somewhat timid, she coaxed the shirt open and off of her.  She wriggled her shoulders slightly until the shirt slipped from her arms and fell to the floor.  Brienne could feel the hot flush creep over her skin and she looked away, unable to meet his eyes, afraid she would see disappointment on his face when he took in her humble breasts.  

He was not disappointed.  Judging by the animalistic growl that tore from his throat, he was nothing but lascivious.  He closed the distance between them in seconds, pressing his bare chest to hers as his hands slid along her back and his mouth captured hers.  He kissed down her throat and she leaned her head back, her trembling hands coming to rest on his sturdy shoulders.

Tormund tilted his head down to take one of her pert nipples in his hot mouth, just as one calloused hand moved to cup her other breast.  She cried out, never imagining it would feel so good to have his hands and mouth on her.  He swirled his tongue around her erect nipple before sucking gently.  His fingers tugged at her other nipple, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough for Brienne to moan brazenly.  He stopped his onslaught on her nipple to smile up at her.

“If you keep moaning like that, someone is gonna come busting through that door wondering what the hell is going on in here,” he teased her.  “I won’t be your secret for long.”  

“I don’t- I don’t care,” she stammered, her eyes wide and ablaze with lust.  Brienne tangled her hands in his hair and pushed his head back to her chest.  Tormund chuckled, amazed by her sudden fervor, before returning to caressing, kissing, sucking, biting and otherwise deliciously tormenting her small sensitive breasts with his hands and mouth.  Brienne was panting now, her legs feeling shaky beneath her.  Her whole body felt like it was on fire.

“Tormund,” she begged, not even knowing what she was begging for, just needing to say his name.  He responded by moving his arms around her. His slid his hands down her back until he was grabbing her ass.  With a grunt, he heaved her up in his arms and wrapped her legs around him. Brienne put her arms around his neck to hold herself to him.  She was honestly amazed he could lift her.  She wasn’t exactly petite.  He grinned as he carried her to the table, setting her down softly on the wooden surface.  She was confused.  Why the table?  Why not the bed?  

He could see that she was baffled but he just winked at her.  “Trust me,” he purred, his large hands massaging her sinewy thighs.  

And she wanted to.  It was clear he knew what he was doing, he knew how to make her feel good.  With her sitting and him standing between her knees, she had to look up at him.  It was odd, to be shorter than him.  He seemed to enjoy it though, bending down to kiss her sensuously while he cupped her face in his hands.  

“Do you?” he asked earnestly when their lips parted.

“Hmm?” she replied, not really understanding what he was asking and too distracted by the enjoyment she was getting from running her hands over the firm muscles of his stomach, her eyes following the little trail of red hair that started at his belly button and traveled down his stomach only to disappear beneath his trousers at the V of his lower abdomen.

He clasped her chin in his hand and pulled her head up so he could look in her eyes.  “Do you trust me?” he asked again, gazing in her eyes, serious.  Brienne nodded slowly, feeling slightly nervous due to his insistence that she trust him.  What was he going to do to her?  He seemed pleased by her response though, placing a possessive kiss on her lips.  His hands moved to the waistband of her pants, his fingers hooking in the fabric as he began to tug them down.  

She honestly thought her heart would explode, it started pounding so hard in her chest.  He was taking off her pants.

TORMUND WAS TAKING OFF HER PANTS!

She gripped his arms, lifting her hips to allow him to tug her pants off of her, all the while feeling a sort of out of body experience, not believing this was really happening.  She was trembling like a leaf and turned to the side, her hands over her lap, when he finally pulled her pants all the way down her to ankles and then off.  He didn’t gape at her like when she had removed her shirt.  Instead, his eyes remained on her crimson face.

“It’s alright,” he said softly, his fingers moving in soft circles on the naked skin of her outer thighs.  Then he slid his hands up her legs and to her back, leaning over to gather her in a tight embrace.  “Tell me to stop and I will,” he whispered in her ear before running his tongue along the curve of her ear.  He bit down on her earlobe and Brienne whimpered.  She did not want him to stop.  She wanted him to ease her fears, to make the butterflies in her stomach disappear, and to sate her aching need for him.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed as she reached her hands up and ran them up his rugged chest.  She seized his shoulders and pulled him closer to her. He was kissing and nipping down her neck now, pressing into her so she had to lean back over the table.  He continued working his way down her body, planting kisses and nibbles on her breasts, her ribs, her stomach.  She could feel his hot breath and the tickle of his beard against her pale, goosebumped skin.  He kept going lower.  His tongue swirled around her bellybutton as he rubbed her hips, gently nudging her to lean all the way back on the table.

She did so slowly, easing herself down onto the smooth wood.  Staring at the ceiling, she tried not to imagine how she must look, laid out on the table before him, completely naked, her long legs dangling over the side.  She was totally exposed.  

He kept kissing lower and lower, his hands rubbing up and down her stomach and thighs.  Slowly, Tormund’s hands slid to her inner thighs and he gently pushed her legs apart.  Tormund let out a strangled breath, growling, “Fuck me! If you’re not the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen.”  

Seven hells!  Brienne pressed her hands to her face, feeling like she just might curl up and die from embarrassment.  His hands left her for a moment and Brienne lifted her head to see Tormund dragging a chair toward the table.  He set it between her legs and sat down on it, his hands caressing her inner thighs as he greedily licked his lips.

“Tormund?” she asked, confused and flustered.  What was he doing? Was he just going to sit there?  Staring at her… _there?_

He grinned at her.  “Trust me,” he urged again before leaning forward to plant a soft kiss on her inner thigh.  She held her breath, her teeth digging into her bottom lip.  He turned his head and kissed her other thigh, repeating this process several times, moving closer and closer to the tuft of blonde hair at the cleft of her thighs.  Her whole body was buzzing in anticipation of where he would touch her next. His palm slid over her taunt stomach, holding her still.  He breathed on her then and Brienne gasped and shuddered as his hot breath reached the sensitive bundle of nerves hidden in her slick folds.  He kissed her gently, his red beard meeting her blonde hair, before his tongue darted out to stroke her clit.  Brienne cried out in shock and pleasure.  

He teased her with soft slow licks using the flat of his tongue.  She could do nothing but gasp and moan beneath him.  Then he brought his hands between her legs and used his fingers to gently spread her lips, giving him better access to every part of her.  Brienne could feel how wet she was, how the warm liquid leaked from her as he touched her.  Tormund’s tongue swirled around her clit before he brought it lower to lap up her moisture.  The eager slurping sounds were nearly too much for her and she shook her head from side to side, squeezing her eyes shut.

“No no no no,” she moaned.

He stopped, lifting his head up to look at her.  “Brienne,” he murmured, his voice thick, “Do you want me to stop?”

She pushed herself up on her elbow to look at him, feeling mortified by the image of his head between her thighs and the glistening moisture on his lips and beard that most certainly came from her.  Brienne shook her head.  She didn’t want him to stop.  Despite herself, she wanted nothing more in that moment but for him to keep tormenting her with his mouth.

“Say it,” Tormund demanded, a wicked grin curling on his wet lips.  “Tell me what you want.”

She hated him in that moment, her eyes flashing angrily at him.  He just chuckled at her, sitting up straighter, moving his mouth farther from where she so desperately wanted it to be.  Her anger was not going to intimidate him.  He was not going to give in until she did.

“Please,” she found herself begging.

“Please what?”

She flopped back on the table, growling in frustration.  After a minute in which she contemplated just lunging at him and forcing his head between her legs, she finally conceded. Brienne pressed her hands to her blushing face, not wanting to see him or have him see her as she mumbled, “Tormund please!  Please keep kissing me and licking me there.”

Though she couldn’t see, Tormund beamed down at her, his eyes taking on an impish glow.  “Yes, my lady,” he replied, trying to gloat but unable to stop the eagerness from creeping into his voice.  He pulled on her hips, tugging her farther down on the table.  He lifted her muscular legs, placing one over each of his shoulders.  His large hands kneaded her ass, pulling her hips up and closer to his mouth.  

Then he leaned forward and latched onto her clit with his mouth, teasing and licking and sucking like his life depended on it.


	13. chapter thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She came crashing back down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think things are progressing nicely. What do you all think? I love when you weigh in with your opinions and thoughts!! It makes me want to finish chapters faster! More chapters coming soon. Comments & critiques always appreciated!
> 
> Check out this totally amazing art by [Elenatria](http://elenatria.deviantart.com/) inspired by this chapter!!!  
> I am blown away by having my words turned into such an incredible piece of art!! EEEEEEEEE!!!!  
> 

  


Brienne gripped the edges of the table, her knuckles turning white as she held on for dear life, as Tormund relentlessly ravished her with his mouth. She had never experienced a pleasure so intense, so exquisite.  A heavenly throbbing heat originated from where his adept tongue tormented her engorged clitoris and radiated over her entire quivering body.  Whimpers and gasps and mews and moans tumbled from her mouth, along with the occasional cry of his name.  Little spasms traveled up her body, the muscles all the way from her toes to the tips of her fingers beginning to tremble in chaotic bursts.  Her breath was heavy, her pulse rapid, sweat sticking her short hair to her flushed forehead.  It wasn’t just her face that was flushed, the skin of her neck and breasts was stained a scarlet hue as well.  Her nipples stood straight up like tiny pink pillars on her chest, so erect they almost hurt.  There was naught a thought in her mind, save for her complete faith in the man that was making her feel this way.

And Tormund kept going, unyielding, his mouth never tiring.  He listened keenly to her cries and quickly learned just how she liked it, what made her moan the loudest.  It wasn’t long before Brienne felt the ardent advance of her orgasm, though the luscious pressure was a hundred times stronger than any pleasure she had ever given herself.  Her muscle spasms increased, the tension building almost painfully in her body.  It was so intense, her burgeoning pleasure, that she felt like she was losing her mind and at any moment she might shatter into a million pieces. She felt herself hovering, right on the precipice, of the soaring cliff of her orgasm.  It was agonizing.  It was perfect.

There was a moment then in which all time stopped.  Everything ceased to be.  Her body went completely slack, her eyes rolling back in her head. There was nothing but ecstasy, pure white hot ecstasy.  She was flying.  It lasted forever and yet it was over too soon.  

She came crashing back down violently: her hips bucking wildly, her back arching, a howl tearing unabashedly from her throat.  Tormund strong hands held her steady while her whole body seized as she rode the crushing waves of her pleasure.  Her legs dropped from his shoulders and he pulled her towards him, sliding her off the table and on to his lap.  She straddled him, wrapping her arms around him, closing her eyes and burying her face in the crook of his neck.  He continued to hold her tightly as her body trembled with the aftershocks of her orgasm.  She clung to him, panting heavily, not quite believing what just happened had actually happened.  It was fucking surreal.

“Damn.  I wish I could have seen your face during that,” he said softly, his hands trailing tenderly over her bare back.  She could form no words to reply and only grasped him tighter, feeling an overwhelming need to be as close to him as possible.  Her mind felt luxuriously empty, fuzzy and calm and sublime.  She was aware of nothing but their bodies pressing together and her increasing feelings of infatuation for him.

He turned his head to press a gentle kiss on her clammy forehead.  “Are you alright?” he asked, amused and mildly concerned by the trembling, mute, breathless woman in his arms.  She nodded against his neck and he chuckled softly at her complete lack of ability to speak at the present moment.  He held her to him, one hand stroking her back and the other gently cradling her head.  He was so perfect, the moment was so perfect, that Brienne felt a great swelling of affection in her heart.   She couldn’t contain it inside of her and the dangerous words spilled from her lips without a thought...

“I love you.”

Tormund’s hand froze on her back.  Brienne pulled her too-heavy head from his shoulder to meet his eyes, suddenly afraid of what she would see there.  He was surprised, his eyes wide and his mouth in the shape of an O.  She held her breath.  A small, slow grin began to tug at his lips until he was grinning from ear to ear as he gazed at her, his eyes shining with joy.  His hand on the back of her head tugged her forward so he could give her an enthusiastic smooch in reply.  

Brienne had never felt happier in her life.

But all good things must come to an end.  Both Brienne and Tormund jumped when someone knocked firmly on the wooden door.

“Brienne?  Are you alright?  I heard yelling.”  It was Lady Sansa, her voice heavy with concern.

“She’s sick.  I’m sure of it.  She was acting so strange earlier.”  It was her squire, his voice sounding even more distressed.

Panic bloomed inside of her.  “I’m- I’m alright.  I- I- I was tired from the trip.” The excuse sounded plainly false, even to her own ears.  She looked down at Tormund with fear in her eyes.

“Shall I summon the maester?” Sansa asked, the door knob beginning to turn ominously.  

“NO!” Brienne shouted desperately, tumbling off of Tormund and toward her clothes. “STOP!” she cried.   

“The bed!” Tormund whispered urgently, scrambling to his feet.  Brienne left her clothes and dove for the bed, pulling the blankets to her chin. He swiftly flattened himself against the wall behind door.  He would be hidden as long as Sansa didn’t come all the way into her room and shut the door behind her.  

Ignoring Brienne’s plea to stop, Sansa pushed the door open and stepped inside the large room, clearly flustered by Brienne’s bizarre behavior. “Really Brienne, what is going on?” she demanded.  “Podrick was so worried he came and found me. And then we heard cries. There is no shame in being ill.”

The two ladies locked eyes, Sansa keenly searching Brienne’s red face as Brienne tried futilely to hide that she was hiding something.  Sansa was too smart and Brienne’s guilt was just too obvious.  Sansa saw right through her.  Brienne’s face burned with embarrassment and she dropped her eyes to the floor, pulling the blankets tighter around her.  Sansa’s eyes left Brienne’s face and moved to floor as well, slowly taking in the tipped over chair and the clothes scattered on the floor.  Tormund’s boots, belt, furs, and sword were impossible to miss.  A deep crease appeared on Sansa’s forehead, her cheeks tinging a pretty pink hue as she realized that Brienne was not ill.  But she was _indisposed_ at the current moment.

“What is it?” cried Pod in a panicked voice, pushing past Sansa into Brienne’s room.  Sansa tried to stop him, putting a hand up and shaking her head at him.   He ignored her, too worried about his lady.  A look of concern passed over his face as he took in Brienne huddled in the bed, face red, eyes wide, her bare shoulders peeking out from the blankets as she clutched them to her chin.  She wished she could turn invisible.

“You’re sick, aren’t you, my lady?  I knew it!”  He shook his head in frustration, looking hurt.  “Why didn’t you tell me?”  He did not seem to notice the signs of her indiscretion scattered on the floor.   Brienne was grateful for that.  The boy looked up to her so much.  He was loyal to a fault.  She did not think she could bear it if he knew that she so close to abandoning her duty to remain the Maid of Tarth.  She could do nothing but stare at the two of them in the doorway, afraid to move, afraid to breath.  Afraid they would notice Tormund hunched behind the door.  It would have been comical if Brienne had been a different sort of person.

“Podrick,” Sansa said sternly.  “You need to go.”

“Yes, of course, Lady Sansa.” He nodded, turning to the fair lady.  “I’ll go get the maester at once.”

“No,” Sansa replied, “That won’t be necessary.”

“What are you talking about?” the boy cried, forgetting his manners in his worry.  He gestured at Brienne.  “Look at her! She’s- She’s…” His voice trailed off as he suddenly noticed Tormund’s sword on the floor, the very same sword that Tormund had to used to practice with him that very morning.  A look of confusion clouded over his young face.  He lifted his eyes to stare at Brienne and she saw the precise moment in which it clicked in his head.  His face turned bright red, all the way from his neck to the tips of his ears.  He gaped open mouth at her.

“Podrick,” Sansa repeated, her voice insisting.  

“Yes, my lady,” he mumbled and then he turned and fled from the room.  Brienne hung her head shame.  The swift tumble from complete ecstasy to utter devastation left her reeling.  She felt sick.   

Sansa was quiet for a long moment.  And Brienne was too disgraced to lift her eyes to look at her.

“Where is he then?” Sansa asked eventually, her voice sounding tired.

“Here,” Tormund replied quietly, stepping out from behind the door.  There was no shame in his voice and Brienne was certain if she lifted her head, there would be none on his face.  A part of her wished she could be as brazen as he.  Sansa eyed the half naked Tormund with unreadable eyes and he gave her one of his most charming smiles back.

“Have no fear, lass,” he assured Sansa. “The honor of your sworn shield is still intact."

“That’s unfortunate,” Sansa said wryly.  “ _Someone_ should be having some fun around here.”  Brienne’s mouth fell open in complete shock as Tormund’s hearty laugh erupted from his mouth.  She pulled her head up to peak at Sansa, who was looking at her with a teasing smile.  Brienne could not believe it.

“Thank you, Lady Sansa,” she said sincerely, her relief blatant on her still blushing face.

Sansa nodded back at her friend, kindness in her eyes, before she said, “Come find me once you’re dressed.  There is much I need to discuss with you.”

“Yes, of course,” Brienne replied.

Sansa then turned towards the door.   She stopped, however, to glare at Tormund.   “If you hurt her...” she threatened.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he answered quickly, staring gravely back at Sansa.  The lady seemed satisfied with that answer and swiftly left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Brienne let a loud sigh leave her mouth as she flopped back on the bed.  She was relieved and still sort of worried and confused all at the same time.  Tormund strode over to her, the bed creaking slightly as he joined her there.  

“Well, that's the shortest I’ve ever keep a secret,” he said with a laugh, one hand slipping under the blankets so he could curl his arm around her waist and pull her body snug against his.  

Brienne frowned and turned her head to look at him.  “That was _terrible._ ”

He smiled, “Aww, no, it could have been much worse.”  Tormund pressed his lips to her collar bone.  “Once we tell Jon, then everyone will know. We won’t have to sneak around… although, if I’m being honest, the sneaking might have been fun.”

“Jon already knows,” Brienne said with a chuckle, reaching a hand up to tangle her fingers in his thick copper curls.  Just being near to Tormund made her feel calmer, saner, like everything was going to be alright. “He caught me coming out of your tent before I left for Riverrun.”

“What?  That little fucker!  He didn’t say a word to me.”

“I asked him not to.”

Tormund shook his head before admitting.  “Jon’s a good lad.  Trustworthy.  Even if he is the King now.”  

“Yes, and you just called the King in the North _a little fucker,_ ” she chastised. 

Tormund’s stared at her in exaggerated shock, slapping one hand on his cheek, his mouth falling open. “Brienne of Tarth!  Did you just swear?" He pressed his hand to her forehead and then to her cheeks.  “Are you feverish?  Maybe we need that maester after all!  You’ve gone mad!”  

She pushed his hands off her, laughing at his silly antics.  He kept teasing her, “Oh no.  You’re sick.  It’s true.  But don’t worry.  I know the cure.” He rolled over on her then, pinning her between his knees as he pressed his lips to hers.  Tormund held her hands to the bed as he kissed down her neck.  She was trapped beneath him and found herself enjoyed the feeling of his weight on her, his grip on her wrists, how she was utterly defenseless against him.  She was reminded very quickly that she was entirely naked, only a few layers of blanket and fur separating him from her.

But now was not the time.

“Tormund, please.” she pleaded, hating that she had to tell him no.  “I can’t. Now not. Sansa is waiting.”

“I know,” he said, disappointed, even though he knew she was right.  He rolled off of her and sat up, his bare feet coming to rest on the wood floor with a light thump.  Brienne sat up and slid towards him, pressing her chest to his back and wrapping her arms his broad shoulders.  

“Tonight?” she whispered huskily in his ear.  Even though it was nearing midday, tonight felt like it was an eternity away.

Tormund sighed ruefully.  “I can’t.  Jon is letting some of the Free Folk settle in Winter Town.  I have to go check on them, make sure the northerners are leaving 'em be.  And I promised I’d stay the night.  Besides, I’ve been spending too much time sleeping on a feather bed.  It's making me soft.”  He let out a dry laugh.  Brienne said nothing, dismayed she would not be sharing her bed with him tonight.  Perhaps it was for the best though. Being with him was dizzying. The time apart might help her clear her head. It was so unlike her to rush head first into something so serious. She dropped her arms from around him and scooted to the side of the bed.  Standing up swiftly, she reached for their clothes.  He caught her hand, pulling her towards where he remained sitting on her bed.  

Tormund wrapped his arms around her hips and kissed her bare stomach.  “Tomorrow,” he promised, looking up at her, his green eyes revealing that, just like her, it seemed far too long for them to wait.

She touched a hand to his scruffy face and whispered, “Tomorrow.”  


	14. chapter fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She gasped and lifted her eyes to Sansa to exclaim, “The King is dead!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter for all those readers that love the scenes with Sansa and Brienne. I see you! Let me know what you think!  
> Next chapter probably won't be until Monday! I'm sorry!! You all have to wait just like Brienne and Tormund. :P

Brienne found Sansa in a large room on the first floor of the Great Keep.  An ornately carved table dominated the space, surrounded by at least a half a dozen chairs, and flanked by two iron floor candelabras.  Neither were lit for the midday sun poured in the sizeable window looking over the courtyard.  Despite the shutters being open and a cool breeze fluttering the many rolls of parchment, maps, and scrolls on the table, the room remained warm due to the blazing fire in the corner.  Sansa stood at the window, her arms wrapped around her chest, appearing lost in her own thoughts.

“Lady Sansa?” Brienne called, stepping toward the lady, her armor creaking slightly as she moved.  Sansa turned and gave her a weak smile.

“A raven came from Kings Landing this morning,” she said, an odd sound in her voice.  Sansa gestured to a roll of parchment on the table, the red wax seal looking as though it had been broken hastily.  “Read it,” she urged before turning back to the window.

Brienne frowned, feeling uneasy by Sansa’s strange coldness.  She moved swiftly to the table, grabbing the scroll and unrolling it with her long fingers.  Her eyes scanned the words rapidly.  She gasped and lifted her eyes to Sansa to exclaim, “The King is dead!”  Brienne was shocked. Tommen was a sweet boy, gentle.  It seemed cruel that he had been taken from this world so soon.  And he was Jaime’s youngest.  Brienne felt a sick feeling growing in her stomach.

Sansa nodded, not turning to look at Brienne. “Keep reading.”  

Brienne complied.  It had been some sort of terrible accident.  But that was not all.  There had also been a fire.  Dozens were dead, including, most tragically, the Queen Margaery.  The parchment tumbled from Brienne’s fingers and she moved back to sink in one of the large carved wooden chairs.  She was speechless.  Margaery was one of the few people at Kings Landing that had been kind to her.  Brienne had trusted her, at least as much as anyone could trust anyone in the royal court.  Margaery had cared for Renly.  And she had believed Brienne when she had told her that she had not killed him, but that he had been slaughtered with blood magic.  Brienne’s hand covered her mouth.  How could she be dead?

Sansa turned to her then, the anguish on her face matching what Brienne was feeling.  She walked to sit in one of the chairs across the table from Brienne.  Her hands shook slightly as she used a tall gilded pitcher to fill two goblets with wine.   She slid one over to Brienne and took the other for herself, raising it to her lips and taking a drink.  Brienne reached for the goblet.  She rarely drank but nothing seemed to be making much sense right now anyway.  The acidic taste of the wine caused Brienne to grimace.    

Sansa set her goblet back on the table with a loud clink.  “Do you know what this means, Brienne?” Sansa asked, her voice sour.  “Cersei has crowned herself Queen.”  A frown twisted the young lady’s face.  Brienne stared at her with wide eyes, knowing that she herself was intimidated by the cruel and manipulative Cersei.  She could not imagine her as anything but an awful, violent Queen.  Gods help them!

“With us retaking Winterfell and Jon crowned King of the North, we might as well hang a banner that says ‘Come and get us!'” Sansa said sarcastically. “She wants me dead, Brienne.  The Queen of Westeros wants me _dead..._ ”  Her voice twisted over that word, the fear she was feeling becoming apparent on her delicate face.

Brienne rose from her chair to move around the table and  kneel in front of Sansa.  “I won’t let her hurt you, Sansa,” she declared.  Sansa stared down at her sworn shield, trying to stop her bottom lip from trembling.  Brienne continued, “You are safe here.  Your brother has an army of thousands now, all of the North behind him.”  Brienne reached forward to grip Sansa’s slim hand in her own.  “And I will protect your life with my own.”  Brienne had never been more certain of anything in her life.  

Sansa nodded, a small smile coming to her lips, though it did not reach her eyes.  “I know.  I know,” she murmured, squeezing Brienne’s hand back.  “As long as you’re not too busy with Tormund, of course,” she teased, half-heartedly.

Brienne recoiled like she had been slapped.  She knew Sansa wasn’t serious, but the idea that she would abandon her duty to Sansa to be with a man, any man, was deeply insulting to her.  Brienne scooted back, pulling herself back up on to her chair.  She reached for the wine glass and took an irritated swig, her eyes boring a hole in the floor.  Did Sansa really think such thoughts about her?

“I’m sorry, Brienne.  That was uncalled for.” Sansa said softly, regret in her voice.  Brienne kept her eyes on the floor.  “I want you to be happy. I do.  It’s just…”  Sansa paused for a moment, taking another drink of her wine.   She exhaled forcefully, “I guess I’m jealous.”

Brienne was baffled by the lady’s confession, looking up at Sansa with a completely confused look on her face.  Sansa scoffed at her.  “Don’t look at me like that!  You know what I mean!”

Brienne shook her head, genuinely not understanding what she meant.  “No, Lady Sansa.  I don’t.”

Sansa leaned forward on the table, saying sincerely, “He _loves_ you.  You can tell by the way he looks at you.  All this terrible shit happening in the world but you have love.  And he is a good man, a bit brash perhaps, but kind.  Honest.  Jon trusts him completely.”   Sansa sat up then, reaching for the pitcher to refill her wine glass.  Brienne sat there silently, her cheeks burning slightly at Sansa’s insistence that Tormund loved her.  She was jealous that he loved her.  And he did, didn’t he?  Even if he hadn’t said it.  He loved her. And she loved him.  Brienne’s tension began to fade as her thoughts turned to Tormund, his bright eyes, his loud laugh, his strong hands, his mouth...

“Really Brienne, you should see your face right now.  You look like you’ve had too much milk of the poppy,” Sansa laughed.  Brienne blinked, pulling herself back to the present moment, and feeling slightly mortified that just the thought of Tormund left her feeling all warm inside.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Brienne blurted, sitting up straighter.

“It’s quite alright,” Sansa replied with a sad smile.  "I haven't seen two people so happy in love since my parents."  Brienne was touched by that.  She watched, somewhat concerned however, as Sansa finished another glass of wine.  She fumbled to refill it and Brienne couldn’t help but wonder how long had she been drinking.  From her mercurial mood, Brienne guessed it had been a while.

“I felt that way once.  Just once.  Just for a foolish moment.” Sansa muttered.  “But I was a naive girl that didn’t know anything about the world.  I couldn’t wait to leave Winterfell, to marry Joffrey, to be the Queen.  I thought that he was kind, handsome, brave.”   Sansa laughed bitterly, the wine sloshing out of the goblet in her hand.  “Can you believe that?  Joffrey?  Kind?  HA!  I was such a stupid little girl.”  Brienne moved forward, taking the goblet softly from her shaking hand and setting it on the table.

Sansa hung her head then and Brienne swore she thought she saw a single tear drip from Sansa’s face and leave one tiny dot on her velvet dress.  She even cried beautifully.  The poor girl had been through so much in her life.  It was brutally unfair.  

Sansa wiped her cheek with her hand and pulled her head up.  “Cersei thinks I killed her son.  I did no such thing.  Though… I wish I had.  I wish it had been me to poison his cup.”  The lady was silent for a moment, staring at Brienne, looking to see if she was appalled by what she had just admitted.  Brienne looked at Sansa with nothing but compassion on her face.  She did not judge Sansa at all.  Joffrey had ordered the murder of her father.  She had every right to want revenge.

Sansa curled her hands into the fabric of her dress as she continued to stared at Brienne.  “I watched Ramsay die, did you know that?  I watched as his own dogs tore his face off.  I watched them eat him alive.  I listened to him scream and beg.  And I… I _liked_ it.”  Sansa’s eyes were filled with a darkness that Brienne had never seen before.  It made Brienne swallow hard.

Sansa took a deep breath and rubbed her forehead, dropping her eyes to the ground.  Brienne just watched the lady, concerned for her, not knowing how to comfort her.  “Does that me an evil person?” Sansa murmured after a long moment of silence stretched between them.

“No, Lady Sansa.” Brienne snapped.  “No!  It makes you a fighter.”  Sansa moved her eyes to Brienne, clearly taking her words to heart.  Brienne went on, “I swore to take revenge on Stannis for killing his brother.  And you know what? I found him wounded in the woods outside of Winterfell.  Unarmed.  Bleeding.  His army had been destroyed by the Boltons.  He was utterly defenseless.  Pathetic.  And do you know what I did?  I executed him.  Without mercy.  Those who live without honor, die without honor.”   

The two ladies stared at each other, sharing a moment of mutual understanding, of true kinship over their thirst for vengeance.

“I want her dead.  I want Cersei dead,” Sansa whispered.

Brienne nodded in agreement.  “She won’t be Queen long.  She has killed or drove away all her allies.”  Just for a millisecond, Brienne’s thoughts flittered to Jaime.  How could he love a woman like that?  What would he think of her and Sansa sitting here, dreaming of Cersei’s death?  Was he grieving for the loss of his son?   Brienne shoved the thoughts from her mind.  It was none of her concern what Jaime thought or did.  She likely would never see him again.

“I forgot.  I got you something,” Sansa said abruptly, a small smile coming to her lips.  Oh no, what was this?  Sansa reached to the end of the table and picked up leather pouch the size of her fist.  She brought it in front of Brienne and dropped it on the table.  “A present,” she grinned.

Brienne picked up the pouch.  It was surprisingly light.  She tugged at the cord keeping it tied and pulled it open.  A strong, bitter smell of dried herbs twinged with a hint of honey hit her nose.  “Ugh.  What is it?”

“Moon tea,” Sansa replied, “It’s strong.  The maester here makes it.  He is very discreet.  Ramsay never knew…”  Sansa paused for a moment and Brienne looked at her with a furrowed brow.  “It works,” Sansa added.  “Drink a hot cup after and you’ll be fine.”  

There was the implied implication that Brienne would use the tea, would not get pregnant, would remain by Sansa’s side.  This was what Brienne wanted, of course.  She did not want to bear a bastard nor did she want to stop being with Tormund.  The tea was a perfect solution.  But there was more to it, hidden in Sansa’s eyes.  Sansa did not want Brienne to leave her and was she was afraid she would.  She was afraid Brienne’s love for Tormund would result in her losing one of the only friends had.  

“Lady Sansa,” Brienne murmured, wanting to quash her friend's fears.  She would not betray her.  Brienne had sworn an oath.

Sansa looked flustered, waving her hand dismissively, “It’s just moon tea.  I just thought…”

“Thank you.”

Sansa nodded.

After a moment, Sansa stood.  “I think… I think I’m going to lie down.  I feel sick from the wine.”

Brienne rose too.  “Shall I accompany you to your room?”

“No, that won't be necessary.”  Sansa said with the shake of her head.  She reached for a scroll on the table, bound in black string, and picked it up.  Holding it out to Brienne, she asked,  “Will you take this to Jon?  I think he’s in the armory.”

“Yes, of course,” Brienne replied, taking the scroll from Sansa.  

There was a pause and then Sansa said softly, “I’m glad you didn’t give up when I refused your service the first time.”

“As am I, my lady.”

They shared one last smile before they went their separate ways.


	15. chapter fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne learns some new things about Tormund.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoy writing scenes with Brienne interacting with lots of different characters. Hopefully you like it too! Let me know.  
> But don't worry, there will be more of just Brienne and Tormund very soon. :)  
> More chapters coming soon! Comments & critiques always appreciated!

Brienne left the Great Keep, scroll in hand, and headed towards the armory to find Jon.  The bright afternoon sun was misleading and Brienne was not expecting the cold blast of air that hit her when she left the warmth of the Keep.  The chill that ran down her spine made her think of Tormund and, she realized, if it wasn’t for her embarrassingly low tolerance for the temperatures of the North, he likely would have never had the opportunity to thaw her coldness towards him.  They owed their budding relationship to the coming of Winter.   How serendipitous that such cold could bring such heat.  Brienne was smiling to herself as she traversed the grounds of Winterfell, thinking ahead to tomorrow and her anticipation of being with him. But a new feeling emerged as she seriously considered what was likely to happen the following night.  She was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of nervousness.  Brienne knew absolutely nothing about being with a man, nothing about how to give him pleasure as incredible as what he had given her.  Suppose he was disappointed?  Unsatisfied with her?  The smile was gone, replaced by a worried frown, when she entered the armory.    

Jon was busy looking over the various swords, shields, and other weapons with the help of a Northern man Brienne did not know.  She bowed slightly as she handed him the scroll, honoring his position as King of the North.  He took it from her, distracted, and turned back to what he was doing without a word.  Brienne rose to her full height, watching them silently.

The Northerner was making tallies on a sheet of parchment, no doubt cataloguing every piece of armor and weaponry in the armory.  She watched them work for a moment, before Jon frowned, running a hand through his thick brown locks.  “The Boltons left quite us quite a supply,” he commented.  “Though it’ll all be useless against the White Walkers,” he added bitterly.

“Useless?  Why, Your Grace?” Brienne interrupted.  Jon looked up at her quickly as if he had forgotten she was there.

“Don’t call me that.  Please,” he replied, looking noticeably uncomfortable by the title.  Brienne nodded respectfully.  With a nod of his head, Jon dismissed the Northerner, who took his parchment and left the armory.  Jon leaned over the large table in front of him, surveying the rows and rows of swords, as he said ruefully,  “The White Walkers’ weapons can cut through any sword, any shield, any piece of armor as though it was made of butter.  But our weapons do nothing but shatter against theirs.”  That was terrible news.  Brienne had no idea they were so defenseless against the White Walkers.

Jon exhaled in frustration.  “Except for dragon glass… and Valyrian steel for some reason.”

“Valyrian steel?” Brienne replied, her brow furrowing.  Oathkeeper was made from Valyrian steel, Valyrian steel that had been forged from the sword of Jon’s murdered father.

“Yes,” Jon nodded.  “I managed to kill a White Walker at Hardhome, only because of a Valyrian steel sword.  I’m lucky Jeor Mormont gave it to me.  It had been in his House for centuries.  Without it, I’d be dead.”  Jon frowned, likely realizing that there were lots of reasons he ought to be dead, regardless of the sword in his possession.

“Ser…” Brienne said softly, pulling Oathkeeper from its sheath and laying the blade flat against her arm.  She moved closer to Jon so he could see.

“Valyrian steel!” Jon exclaimed as his eyes took in the long sharp blade.  There was awe in his voice.  “Where did you get this sword?”

“Your father,” she breathed.  Jon lifted his eyes from Oathkeeper to stare at her, a mixture of pain and shock on his face.  “Or rather, your father’s sword.  After his death, it was reforged into two swords.  This is one of them,” she explained.

“How did you end up with it?” Jon asked gruffly, not bothering to hide the suspicion in his voice.

“It was given to me by the Kingslayer.”  Jon’s eyes narrowed at her.  Brienne continued quickly,  “I know how that sounds, Ser.   He gave me this sword to protect your sisters.  I swore an oath to Lady Catelyn to exchange his life for Sansa and Arya’s.  I upheld my part of the oath by delivering him to King’s Landing.  But by then, he could not do the same. Arya was nowhere to be found and Sansa was wed to the imp.  I could do nothing to protect either of them.  It was only when Sansa disappeared after King Joffrey’s death that he gave me the sword and sent me to fulfill my oath.  I have done my best.”  She paused then, worried that she had revealed too much about her friendship with Jaime, and that Jon wouldn’t understand and would consider her a traitor.  She could not read the dark expression on his handsome face.

Brienne knelt then, her armor sliding sharply against itself, as she lifted the sword up to him in a gesture of respect. “It was your father’s sword. And now it should be yours.”  She lowered her head, her face twisting in a miserable frown.  It would break her heart to lose Oathkeeper.  But it was the honorable thing to do.  The steel had been stolen from Lord Eddard's sword and belonged to Jon more than it did to her.

“Stand up,” he said sharply.  “I don’t want you to kneel to me.  I don’t want anyone to kneel.”  Brienne stood slowly, feeling clumsy and awkward by his incisiveness.

“And I don’t want your sword,” he said, his voice softening just slightly.  She looked down at him, hope bursting in her blue eyes.  “Use it to keep Sansa safe.  There is no better purpose for the steel of my father's sword.”  Brienne was relieved, feeling the pressure in her eyes lessen.  She had not realized she was nearly on the verge of tears until she felt the emotion fade as he refused to take Oathkeeper.  She slid the sword back into its sheath but did not lessen her grip in its hilt.  The metal was warm and comforting in her hand.

“Besides, what would I do with two Valyrian swords?” Jon asked with a grin and a shrug.  Brienne managed to return his smile with a small grin of her own, feeling a deep sense of relief.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her gratitude overflowing from the words.  Jon just nodded and returned his gaze to the weapons on the table.  

“Speaking of my sister,” Jon said after a moment, “Has she said anything to you?  About me?”  There was a curious look in Jon’s eyes.  

“About you, Ser?  No.”

“Really? Nothing?” Jon tapped his fingers against the wooden table, lost in his thoughts.  Brienne waited patiently, hands clasped behind her back, for him to share what was on his mind.  

“I think she is angry with me,” Jon said eventually.  “She is the one with the Stark name.  She convinced me to fight for Winterfell.  She saved us all when she secured the men of the Vale to fight for her.  And then… what?”  Jon shook his head, frustrated.  “Then they crown _me_ King of the North.  I never wanted that.  I never asked for that.”

“She knows that, Ser.”  

“Will you ask her?  Will you ask her if she is angry with me?  She trusts you.”

“Your Gr-” Brienne paused, before starting again.  “Ser, you should talk to her yourself.  You are family.  She trusts you.”

“Does she?” Jon retorted quickly, a deep frown on his face.  They stared at each other.  Brienne had nothing to say in response to that.  She knew that Sansa had lied to her brother’s face.  She knew Sansa was not always forthcoming with him, but she also knew that Sansa cared deeply for Jon, and he for her.  They had not been close as children, but now, they shared a deep bond forged from adversity.

“I will talk to her,” Brienne murmured, “though I can’t promise it will lead to anything fruitful”.

Jon looked relieved.  “I only ask that you try,” he replied.  He seemed satisfied then, and dismissed Brienne with a nod.   She turned to go, walking to the door, about to leave.  She hesitated then, turning back to Jon, chewing her bottom lip.  

“Can I ask you something?” she said quietly, feeling a heat rise to her cheeks just at the thought of what she wanted to know.  But there was no one else to ask.  If there was _anyone_ else, she would not be asking him, that was for certain.

“Of course, Brienne.  What is it?” he said, not bothering to look up from the table.

Brienne gulped, not believing she was going through with it. “It’s about Tormund.”

Jon paused at that, looking up to meet her eyes.  The seriousness left his face, only to be replaced with a curious interest.  “Yes?”

Brienne contemplated forgetting the whole idea and just bolting from the room.  What was she doing?  She hardly knew Jon.  But Jon knew Tormund.  That was the whole point. She took a breath and then asked, her voice barely above a whisper, “What does he… like?”

“Mead.” Jon said with a laugh, finding Brienne’s question to be rather cute.  “And that sour goat’s milk he’s always trying to get everyone to drink.  He likes a good roast hen.  A joke, the filthier the better.  And he likes to fight.  But you know this.  You know all this.”  

Brienne nodded, before her blushing intensified, the red hue creeping down the pale skin of her long neck.  “I meant… I meant what does he... _like_ … when it comes to...”  She couldn't finish.  She couldn’t ask that question or she just might disappear in a poof of embarrassment.  This was a bad idea.  What made her think that she could ask Jon such an inappropriate question?  Or that he would even know what Tormund liked when it came to bedding women.  Was she insane?

Jon looked at her, confused by her stammering, until he finally took notice of her bright red face.  She wouldn’t, couldn't, meet his eyes.  He tried not to laugh when he realized what she was really asking, pressing his lips together to stifle the laughter bubbling up in him.  Brienne was such a fierce fighter, it was easy to forget that she was so innocent when it came to other things.

“He likes _you,_  Brienne.” Jon said gently.   Her eyes remained on the floor, but she was listening intently. “Just be you, and he’ll be more than happy." Brienne nodded, still not able to meet his eyes, but reassured by his words nonetheless.  Jon tried not to chuckle as she mumbled a hurried “thanks” and nearly ran from the room, the sound of her armor clanging loudly in her haste to flee.

-

The brisk air felt lovely against her flushed cheeks when she exited the armory.  Brienne walked swiftly through the yard, past the guest house and the burnt remains of the library, needing to clear her head and calm herself.  She could not believe she had just asked Jon that.  Her feelings for Tormund were making her completely reckless.  She was lucky Jon was so kindhearted.  They all were.  He was a good King.  

Brienne was about to turn around and return to the Keep when she spotted Podrick near the stables.  He was sitting at one of the grindstones outside the smithy, his foot moving rhythmically over the pedal to turn the sharpening stone, his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he concentrated.  She noticed a free folk boy, dressed in thick furs from his feet to the hood on his head, standing next to Pod and watching him keenly.  Brienne moved closer, curious, and watched as Pod pressed his blade to the stone. The piercing sound of metal on stone echoed in the yard.  Brienne winced.  He wasn’t using enough water.  She could tell that just by the sound.  Brienne kept walking towards Pod, wanting to tell him to add more water to stone before he ruined the sword.  Before she could, however, the free folk child spoke and Brienne realized it was not a boy. It was a girl, of perhaps 10 or so, her voice bossy but her words accurate.

“Ya need more water,” she snapped.  Pod ignored her.  Brienne paused to watch their interaction.

“If you don’t add more water, your blade‘s gonna go to shit,” she warned.

Podrick pulled his sword back from the stone and glared up at the girl, clearly annoyed.  “What are you even still doing here?  The rest of the free folk have left for Wintertown.  Shouldn’t you be with your people or something?” he grumbled.  Brienne was somewhat appalled, somewhat amused as she watched her squire.  She had never before seen Pod act in such an impolite manner.  Why was he in such a cross mood?  Was he that upset from catching her with Tormund? Or was it something else?  Brienne did not know. 

Regardless of his frustration with the girl, he lifted the bucket from the ground and poured more water on the stone anyway.  The girl smiled smugly at him.  He scowled, clearly irked that the girl seemed to know more about smithing than he did.

The girl folded her arms over her chest and said precociously, “I’ll go to Wintertown when I’m ready.  Besides, it’s not like it’s far.  Are you worried I’ll get lost, Poddy?”  

“No,” Pod grumbled, sliding his blade against the stone again. Poddy? Brienne couldn't help but smile at that.  Both Brienne and the girl observed closely as he sharpened his sword, actually doing it correctly this time.  Brienne wondered who this girl was and how she had come to know, and annoy, Podrick so thoroughly.   Brienne moved closer to them and the girl finally noticed her.  

Her eyes widened as she took in Brienne’s height, her impressive armor, the gold hilted sword on her belt.  Pod looked to the girl, noticed her shocked face, and then followed her gaze to Brienne.  He frowned and pulled his sword from the stone.  The sharp grinding noise ceased abruptly. Pod said nothing but lowered his eyes.  He reached for the cloth at his side to rub the sword clean.  He did not seem to want to look at Brienne, and she noticed, feeling a pang of guilt.

“Who _are_ you?” the girl asked Brienne, clearly amazed as she gazed up at her.  “Are you a Queen?  You look just how I'd imagine a Queen to look.”  Brienne did not know what to say to that, but she found herself instantly endeared to the girl.  Her face was covered in freckles and she was all gangly knees and elbows.  Brienne could relate.  And she looked somewhat familiar.  Brienne wondered if she had seen her before.

“She’s not a queen,” Podrick muttered, somewhat brashly.  “But she is a highborn lady.  You should show some respect.”  Brienne frowned at Pod.  Why was he being so surly?  The girl meant no harm.

“I don’t respect anyone til I’ve seen how they use a sword,” the girl retorted, turning her head to stick her tongue out at Pod.  He rolled his eyes. The girl turned back to Brienne with a smile.  “My papa taught me that.  I’m Munda,” she added.

“My name is Brienne,” she replied with a smile.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Munda.”  It was a rather odd name.  Where had she heard it before?

“Is that a bear on your sword?” Munda asked, looking with awe at the golden pommel on the end of Oathkeeper.

“It's not a bear. It's a lion!"

The girl was clearly impressed.  “I’ve never seen a lion before.  Or a sword like that.”

“Do you want to hold it?” Brienne asked, feeling generous towards the girl.  She reminded her of Arya, the same fire in her eyes, the same fearlessness.   Munda nodded eagerly.  Brienne pulled Oathkeeper from its sheath and turned the handle to face the girl.  She wrapped both of her hands around the grip and gritted her teeth as she lifted the heavy blade in the air.  Brienne couldn't help but grin by how ecstatic the girl looked holding her sword.  Brienne stepped back so she could try swinging it around and the girl tried her best, though it was clear that the weight of the sword was difficult for her. Podrick watched them both with a grumpy look on his face.

“Don’t drop it,” Podrick warned.  Brienne gave him a sharp look.  He dropped his eyes again. Munda did fumble slightly with the sword when she attempted to return it to her, but Brienne caught it easily with one hand, the sword perfectly at home in her hand.

“Do you want to see my sword?” Munda asked earnestly.  “I made it myself.”  

Brienne nodded, “I’d love to.”  

The girl smiled, pulling the short curved sword from her belt just as she pushed the heavy fur hood back from her head with her other hand. Brienne’s mouth fell open as a tumble of red curls emerged from beneath the hood.  All Brienne could do was stare as the girl proudly twisted her sword through the air, showing off her obvious skill with a blade.  There was a buzzing in Brienne's ears and she heard none of what Munda was telling her.

The freckles, the red hair, the spunkiness...   It couldn't be.

“Munda!” Brienne blurted, interrupting the girl.

She looked confused by Brienne's outburst. “What?”

“What is your surname?”

The girl looked even more confused, “My what?”

“Do you have second name?  A family name?” Brienne pressed, urgently, feeling her pulse pounding.  He would have told her.  Surely he would have told her if he had a daughter.

“Aye,” the girl said with a nod, glancing at Pod, the look on her face revealing she did not understand why Brienne was acting so bizarre all of a sudden.  The look on Pod’s face revealed that he already knew.  He already knew the answer to what Brienne was asking.

“What is it?” Brienne asked, her voice low but intense.

“Giantsbane,” Munda said proudly.

And there it was.


	16. chapter sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tears that had threatened to fall before chose that very moment to spill from her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many feels in this chapter. I always seem to struggle with the chapters in which Brienne is being emotional and vulnerable.  
> How'd I do? Let me know in the comments. And thanks a million for reading!! I love hearing from all of you! :)

All Brienne could do was stand there, stunned and silent.  The shift in her expression was abrupt, the warmth and friendliness disappeared as a closed coldness settled on her face.  A sharp crease appeared between her brows, the lines around her mouth deepening with her frown, her eyes turning to ice.  Munda looked from Brienne to Podrick, completely perplexed and mildly uneasy by the change in the woman standing in front of her.  Munda roughly shoved her sword back in her belt and turned to the squire. “What did I do?” she demanded.

He just shook his head at her and replied bluntly, “You didn’t do anything.  Your father did… Or rather, _didn’t._ ”

“My father?!” Munda squawked, finding no bit of understanding from his reply.  If anything, it made her even more confused.  Brienne seemed to snap back to reality at the girl’s shout.  She didn’t appear to have been listening to any of their conversation.  

“Thank you, Munda, for showing me your sword.  I have to- I have to go now,” she mumbled, clearly distracted by her tumultuous thoughts. Brienne turned abruptly and stomped off, her head down, her lean legs propelling her quickly away.  Pod fumbled to push his sharpened sword back into its sheath and rise to his feet at the same time. He nearly tumbled over the grindstone in front of him as he rushed after her.

“My lady!” he called, having to break into a jog to try to catch up.

“Where are you going?” Munda yelled after him, exasperated that no one bothered to explain to her what the hell was going on.  In her frustration, she kicked over the bucket that held the water for the grindstone.  She watched as it seeped into the snow, grumbling to herself, “Stupid kneelers.” After a moment, she slowly turned her head back to where the two had disappeared, a mischievous glint appearing in her green eyes.               

-

Brienne’s mind was reeling, her gut wrenching as she trudged through the grounds of Winterfell.  She was completely lost in her own thoughts. How had he not told her about Munda?  Why had he not told her?  She knew not what to think or feel.  She felt a little spark of anger, but it was nothing compared to the flame that burned with an aching hurt inside of her.  Did he not want her to know him, to be a part of his life?  A part of his family?  She paused then, outside the stables, her hands clenching into fists.   Maybe he didn’t tell her he had a child because… because children have mothers.  Maybe Tormund had a wife.  Maybe he had lots of wives.  Maybe...

Brienne pressed her hand to her mouth, feeling a pressure building in her eyes.  She ducked inside one of the stables, not wanting anyone to see the emotion brewing on her face from her stormy thoughts.  The smell of hay and horses was overwhelming, but also somewhat comforting.

Brienne could not come to terms with the realization that Tormund had a daughter.   She had no framework in which to assimilate this new information.  She felt betrayed.  She had told him that she loved him!  Brienne had told Tormund she loved him.  Now it seemed foolish.  How could she love him?  She hardly knew him.  That was painfully clear to her now.  She didn’t know him at all.  Brienne felt a sort of panicky tightness in her chest.  She tried to take a deep breath, she tried to calm herself, but she could not.

“He didn’t tell you about her, did he?” Podrick’s voice, slightly out of breath, interrupted her thoughts.  He had followed her into the stables. Pod paused by the door, his brown eyes intent on her face.   Brienne looked at him briefly and then turned away, not wanting him to see her so undone. But they had spent too much time together, traversing the lands of Westeros, and he had learned to read her.

“It makes you wonder what else he hasn’t told you,” Pod continued, his voice pressing, saying outloud what Brienne could only speculate in her distraught mind.  The tears threatened to spill from her eyes.  She heard him step closer.  

“You can’t trust him.  Who knows what else he could be hiding?”  His voice was low, harsh.  He didn’t sound like Pod at all.

His words made her angry, inciting the fire within her.  It felt good to abandon her hurt feelings and sink into her anger.  She whirled around on him and snarled, “You forget yourself, Podrick!  We are guests here, of the King’s!  And Tormund is the King's trusted advisor and friend.  What you just said could be considered treason!”  She towered over the squire, her nostrils flaring.  He struggled to met her eyes and stand his ground.  She could see from his somber face that her words stung him.  And judging by his wide eyes, he was trying not to lose his nerve.

“You shouldn’t be with him,” he uttered, pink rising in his cheeks.  Brienne was flabbergasted by her squire's outlandish behavior.  

“You shouldn’t be talking to me that way,” she retorted.  He lowered his eyes then, looking entirely crestfallen.  Brienne backed away, feeling shaky.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” he mumbled, shuffling his feet on the dirt floor beneath them.  “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, you shouldn’t’ve,” she replied quickly, though her fury was beginning to fade as rapidly as it had sparked.  She felt tired.  Brienne just stared at him, trying to understand what had compelled him to say such things.   It was completely unlike him.  Pod was simple, kind, dutiful. He did not stand up to her.  At least he never had, until today.  He had also never caught her with a man, until today.

Pod slowly raised his head, still avoiding her eyes, as he managed to mutter, “I thought… I thought you loved Ser Jaime.”  

Brienne’s mouth fell open, the color draining from her face.  How did he know that?  How could he have possibly known that she had feelings for Jaime?  She had hidden them, deep within herself, at times even _from_ herself.  Brienne struggled to find words, any words, and lifted a gloved hand to brace herself against the wooden railings of the stable, her shakiness only increasing.

“Why?  Why would you think that?” she stammered eventually.  She stared at her squire and he finally seemed able to meet her eyes again, though he looked like a deer being hunted by wolves, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation.  

“It was something Ser Bronn said, my lady.  At Riverrun.” His voice was quiet, careful.

“Bronn?” Brienne exclaimed.  Why was Bronn talking to Podrick about her feelings for Jaime?  How did he know?  If he knew, did that mean that Jaime knew? Fuck.  

“What did he say exactly?” she demanded.

“Exactly, my lady?” Pod said nervously.

“Yes.  What were his exact words?”  

Podrick gulped.  Brienne took that as a very bad sign.  “Ser Bronn said that ‘cause of the way that you looked at Ser Jaime, that he could tell that you wanted to…”  He paused, his face becoming even more red.

“What, Podrick?  Spit it out!”

There was a long pause before Pod managed to mumble the words, his voice barely above a whisper.  Brienne had to lean in to hear him.  “He said you wanted to fuck him.”

Brienne scowled, an ugly frown twisted her face.  She was appalled that Bronn had been talking about her in such a manner.  She spat, “Bronn is a vulgar man.  He doesn’t know anything about me.”  

The former was true, but the latter was not.  She had thought of being with Jaime, in the carnal sense, though she had told herself it was nothing but a silly fantasy to warm herself on cold nights.  A passing dream.  A desire that she had tried to deny.  How had Bronn known?  Was she somehow obvious?  Her face began to flush as her curiosity got the better of her.  Despite her better sense, she found herself asking, “Is that all? Did he say anything else?”

Podrick hesitated.  Brienne glared at him until he gave it up.

“He said- he said that Ser Jaime wanted to fuck you, too.”

He wanted.

To fuck.

Her too.

The words rattled around in her head, smashing into her gut, twisting around her heart, creeping into the deepest part of her soul.  If Bronn was right about Jaime, just as he had been right about her, then that meant that somehow, in some way, Jaime had desired her.

“That’s-  that’s- not true,” she whispered, leaning against the stable wall, feeling faint.  It was too much.  Tormund and Jaime and Munda and Pod and all of it.  It was all too much.

“My lady?” Pod asked, stepping towards her, concern clouding his young face.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to upset you.  I shouldn't have said that, any of that.  I’m sorry!” Brienne closed her eyes, resting her head against the wall, trying to find some sort of equilibrium within herself in which to cling to, in which to stop the world from spinning around her.  Brienne felt Pod’s gentle hand on her forearm, steadying her.  She dragged her eyes open and looked down at her squire.  His big brown eyes were full of compassion as he looked up at her.  The tears that had threatened to fall before chose that very moment to spill from her eyes.

“If he felt that way, if he really felt that way, why didn’t he say something, _anything,_ to me?” she choked.  Brienne was not a pretty crier.  She was all blotchy cheeks, puffy eyes, and ragged sobs.

“I don’t know, my lady,”  Pod murmured, searching his pockets for something in which to dry her tears.  He found nothing.  “I don’t know,” he repeated as he reached up and tenderly wiped her tears away with the sleeve of his tunic.  She let him, having no energy in her to push his hands away.

“Stop it,” she sniveled before joking meekly, “When’s the last time you washed that tunic?  I’d probably be better off wiping my face with one of the horse's blankets.”  He laughed lightly, looking relieved that Brienne was returning to the lady he was used to, instead of the mess of tears she had momentarily become.  Her tears slowed and eventually stopped, her eyes stinging, her whole body feeling fucking raw.  Pod was patient, waiting quietly as she regained control of herself.  

She found herself wanting someone to wrap their arms around her, to hold her to tight, to tell her everything would be alright.  She wanted Tormund, she realized, so badly that it hurt her already aching mind.  Brienne rubbed the last of her tears from her cheeks and sucked in a frazzled breath.  If she wanted him, why didn’t she go and find him?  There was nothing stopping her, save for the fact that she had no idea where he was in Wintertown.  But she knew someone that did.  

Brienne pushed herself upright and brushed past Pod, her lips settling in a thin line of steely determination.  Just deciding on a plan of action made her feel better, made her feel more like herself.

“My lady?” Pod called after her, following her, instantly baffled by her seemingly sudden change of heart.  Brienne stalked through the yard, back to the smithy, her blue eyes searching for the unmistakable bright red of Munda’s hair.  She was nowhere to be found.

Until Brienne turned back around and saw the girl wriggling down from the thatched roof of the stables.  Brienne strode toward her, reaching the girl just as she dropped hastily to the snowy ground.

“You were listening,” Brienne said blunty.  Munda nodded, staring boldly up at her.  Brienne found herself chuckling wryly at the girl’s audacity. She was shameless, just like her father.  Pod joined them, looking from Brienne to Munda.  He was the one that was confused now.

“I need a favor,” Brienne stated, looking down at the girl.  Munda’s hands were on her hips.  “I want you to take me to Tormund.”

“Why should I?” the girl asked, her voice not rude, but not particularly kind either.

“I need to talk to him.”

“What about?”

Brienne sighed, deciding quickly that honesty was the simplest.  “About you.  He never told me about you.  And about me.  I need to tell him something.”

“You’re his friend?”

“You could say that.”

Munda narrowed her eyes, her freckled face revealing that she was contemplating Brienne’s favor.  There must have been much she did not understand about what she had heard them talking about in the stables, but she seemed to be smart enough to not ask, to not comment on Brienne’s tear-stained face.  She looked at Pod quickly, who shrugged at her, before she looked back at Brienne.

“I’ll do it,” she stated, with a confident nod of her head.  “But you’ll owe me, Lion Queen.”

“A favor for a favor, it’s only fair,” Brienne replied with a weak smile.  She turned to her squire and said, “Podrick, tell Sansa I’ll be heading to Wintertown.”

Podrick frowned.  “When should I tell her you’ll be returning?”

Brienne paused.  “Later tonight.  Tomorrow morning at the latest.”  Podrick nodded, appearing hesitant about Brienne leaving, but knowing he had no grounds to say so.  He had already stepped out of place too much today.  “Yes, my lady.”

With that, Brienne turned back to Munda, gesturing to the gate beyond them.  “After you.”


	17. chapter seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Munda!
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Tormund and Brienne are together again! :D :D :D  
> Super big thanks to Escribo86 & Jemster for helping me with ideas and editing and just being generally awesome.  
> All credit for Tormund's awesome dad joke goes to Escribo86.  
> Check out Jemster's fucking HAWT Tormund/Brienne fic: [On Your Knees, Wildling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7824694/)
> 
> As always, let me know your thoughts in the comments! I'm gonna mix it up and the next chapter is gonna be Tormund's POV!

The sun was beginning to set as Brienne and Munda ambled through the east gate toward Wintertown.  It wasn’t far and wouldn’t take them long to get there by foot.  Brienne felt a sort of jittery nervousness.  She didn’t really know this girl she was following at all.  She didn’t know what she was going to say to Tormund or how he would react to her suddenly showing up unannounced.  And Brienne didn’t know if she was more angry or upset or if she just wanted to wrap her arms around Tormund, bury her face in the crook of his neck, and forget everything as she breathed in his musky scent.  Maybe a little of all three.

As they walked, with Brienne having to force herself to take small steps to keep pace with Munda, the silence between them stretched on.   It did nothing to make Brienne feel less anxious.  So she said the first thing that popped into her head.

“Do you like living in Wintertown?” she asked, turning her head from the muddy road to look over at Munda.  The girl shrugged, her hand resting on the leather-wrapped hilt of her sword.  Brienne looked down at her own hand, resting on Oathkeeper’s hilt; the realization of their similar postures was amusing to her, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“It’s alright, I guess,” Munda replied.  “I never lived in a stone house before.  And my room is on the second floor! Can you believe it? Two floors just for us!”  Munda’s voice rose with obvious excitement.  

Brienne chuckled, “I can. But that seems wonderful.”

Munda nodded.  “It’s a pretty nice room.  There’s even a window!”  She frowned then as she continued, “I have to share it Johnna and Ursa.  And even Brenhild sometimes.  But I don’t mind that _too_ much.”

“Are those your sisters?” Brienne asked, trying not to reveal the sudden panic she was feeling.  What if Tormund had lots of children? Lots and lots of ‘em?  She didn’t know if she could handle that.  Just finding out about Munda was enough of a surprise.

Munda laughed at her. “No! Brenhild is my aunt.  And Johnna and Ursa just live with us now, ‘cause they lost their mum at Hardhome.” Munda was silent for a moment, a sadness sinking over her face. “We lost a lot of us there.  Papa was in the last boat.  I didn’t think he was gonna make it.” Munda pulled her hood up then, her face disappearing behind the thick furs. Brienne knew things had been harrowing for the free folk, but listening to Munda made her realize how little she really knew about what they had been through, how terribly unaware she was.  And hearing that Tormund had almost not survived made Brienne’s chest tighten.  If he had died then, she never would have even met him.

“I can’t imagine what that’s like, Munda. I’m so sorry,” Brienne murmured, the deep crease in her brow returning.  Munda stopped then and turned to look up at Brienne, her eyes narrowed and her arms crossed over her chest.  Brienne stopped too, and turned towards the girl.

“You’re sad,” Munda accused, as though it was preposterous that Brienne would be empathetic to her.

“Yes,” Brienne said slowly, tilting her head slightly to the side in her confusion as she looked down at Munda.  “It’s awful what happened to you, to all the freefolk,” she explained.

“Why do you care so much?” Munda demanded.  Brienne was surprised by that question.  She had to think about that for a  moment, wondering why Munda was so suspicious, and how she could explain herself.

“Well… I care about your father.  And, so, I suppose, I care because he does.” Munda continued to stare up at her, as if she was trying to figure out if Brienne was lying.  Brienne found herself feeling quite awkward, though she maintained eye contact with the brazen girl.   Eventually, Munda seemed satisfied, as though Brienne passed some kind imaginary test, and turned from her to keep walking toward the town.  Brienne let out a breath and followed after her.  

“I don’t think any of the other kneelers like us,” Munda grumbled, the spite obvious in her voice.  “I’ve heard them talking about us and it ain’t pretty.”  Brienne wondered if she heard people talking about free folk in a similar manner to which she had overheard her and Podrick’s conversation.  It seemed likely that the girl had been eavesdropping and probably had heard terrible things said about her people.

“It takes time,” Brienne said, fessing up as she added,  “I didn’t trust your father when I first met him.”

“Really?  Why not?”

Brienne smiled, recalling how much she had detested him, and finding it amusing that now she couldn’t seem to go five minutes without thinking about him.  Brienne sighed, “I thought he was playing a trick on me.”

“Oh yeah!  He plays tricks all the time!” Munda agreed, sending Brienne a knowing look.  “When I was little, he told me if I ate enough rabbit meat I’d be able to jump high, _so high!_  High enough to reach the top of the wall!  I believed him too.  He even took me to the wall and let me try.”

“He did not!” Brienne laughed, shaking her head at Tormund’s joke.  She could just picture him saying that, convincing little Munda with his utter commitment to the gag.  The image was heartwarming.

“He did!” Munda insisted, her laughter joining in easily with Brienne’s, their happy voices ringing out in the growing twilight.

By then, they had reached the outskirts of Wintertown, tidy rows of houses built of log and undressed stone laid out before them.  As they continued on, Brienne was taken aback by how crowded the town seemed.  She knew that northerners from the surrounding areas came to Wintertown to withstand the winter, hence the name.  And she knew that Jon had decreed that a fourth of the houses were to be granted to the free folk.  But she had not imagined the hustle and bustle of northerners and freefolk on the narrow roads, the overflowing tavern, the cacophony of noise.  She wondered how they were all living together, in such close quarters, and maintaining the peace.  

The simple answer, she learned quickly, was that they weren’t.  Munda and Brienne rounded a corner and found themselves on one side of the crowded market square.  Most of the wooden stalls were closing for the evening, but a few shoppers were still bargaining for the last of the daily wares.  On the other side of the square, past the stone well, a group of four or five obviously drunk men were yelling insults and posturing aggressively at a pair of adolescent free folk, who didn’t look to be more than 15 or 16 years old.

“No one wants you here, you fucking wildlings!”

“Go back to where came from! And take your ugly women with you!”  Cruel laughter followed.

Even from her distance, she could see the free folk boys reach for the weapons at their belts.  This was not good.  This was not good at all. Brienne pushed her way through the crowd, Munda trailing close behind her.  She was not going to be able to reach them in time to stop the fight.  And if the free folk killed one or all of those men, or the other way around, she had no idea what Jon would do to punish the violence. But it likely wouldn’t do anything to strengthen the fragile truce between the free folk and northerners. Brienne struggled to get through the crowd, which seemed to be completely oblivious to the brewing fight.

She heard his voice before she saw him.   

“Keep your weapons sheathed, lads.  These drunk cunts ain’t worth it,” Tormund growled, moving to stand in front of the boys, his eyes narrowing at the northerners.  Seeing him there, angry, brave, standing his ground, protecting his people: it filled Brienne with an incredibly overwhelming feeling of attraction.  An image flashed in her head of him above her, naked, holding her down, taking her, that same fire in his eyes.   Damn.  Just seeing him for a second got her all hot and bothered.  Maybe she didn’t know him enough to really love him, but she had seen enough to be in mad lust with him.

The northerners didn’t seem nearly as pleased as Brienne was by Tormund’s sudden appearance.  He was taller than them, thicker too, and fiercely intimidating.  Moving closer, Brienne saw the northern man in front, the one leading the heckling, hesitate. He wasn’t drunk enough to be a complete idiot and his targets just changed from two freefolk boys to a towering freefolk man.   But with his friends egging him on, he couldn’t back down or he’d lose face.  She saw him bring his fists up, ready to fight.  Brienne held her breath.  Tormund could easily take him down, but Brienne worried it would cause a ripple of violence to break out in the crowd.  

She was able to push through the last of the crowd before either of them made another move.  Her eyes were on the northerners, her back to Tormund, as she joined him in standing between them.  The northerner’s eyes grew wide at the sight of her, his fists faltering.  She was taller than him, and meaner looking too.  No doubt the combination of facing down Tormund and now Brienne was not what he had anticipated when he set his eyes on targeting the free folk boys.

“Do you know what a royal decree is?” she challenged fearlessly, her hand gripping Oathkeeper.

“Who the fuck are you?” one of the other northerners demanded.  She ignored him, keeping her eyes on the apparent leader of the group.  She didn’t wait for his answer.

“A royal decree is formal order from the King.  It is absolute.  If you disobey, at best you’ll spend months in chains.  At worst, you’ll be executed.” She glared at him, letting that sink in.  “The King has the decreed that we are to welcome the free folk to Wintertown.  Do you think you are being welcoming?”  The northerner scowled at her and then looked away from her piercing stare.  Brienne knew then that she had triumphed.

“Fuck this!” he muttered, turning back to his friends. “The Smoking Log’s open.  Let’s get some ale and women.  We don’t need this shit.” Brienne stood her ground, not moving, as they turned and stalked away.  Several of them shot her dirty looks and she heard them mutter insults at her under their breaths.  She didn’t care.  They were leaving.  There would be no fighting tonight.  She didn’t relax until the last of them disappeared in the thinning crowd.  Satisfied, Brienne nodded, a smug smile on her lips.

Before she could do much of anything else, however, she felt two strong hands on her shoulders.  They tugged her around and she was pulled roughly into Tormund’s arms.  She gasped as he captured her mouth with his own.  She instantly responded, one arm curling around his back and the other reaching up to grasp the back of his neck.  The kiss was so intense, so passionate, that Brienne completely forgot they were standing in the middle of the town square.

She was panting when he pulled back from her, their eyes locking for they were utterly entranced with each other.

“Hey beautiful,” he whispered, beaming at her.  “I love watching you scare people.”   She grinned back at him.  Gods! He was so handsome.

“I fucking knew it!” Munda squealed, literally jumping up and down beside them, giddy from witnessing their affection.  Brienne’s cheeks bloomed bright red as she suddenly recalled that her and Tormund were not the only two people in the entire world, though it felt like that when he kissed her.  They untangled their arms from around each other and moved apart, though one of Tormund’s arms remained curled around her back with his hand resting possessively on her hip.  She liked that.  She liked that more than she cared to admit.

“Where have you been, Munda?  You’re supposed to be home by sundown,” Tormund chided, his voice stern but not unkind.  He raised his eyes to the fading pink in the horizon and then looked purposefully back to his daughter.  “The sun is down.”  He didn’t seem to realize that it was Munda that had brought Brienne to him.  Munda frowned at her father.  Their resemblance was striking when they were mad, Brienne found herself thinking, the same fiery energy in their eyes, the same boundless stubbornness.  

“You’re not even gonna thank me for bringing the Lion Queen to you?” Munda grumbled.  

“Who?” Tormund asked.

“She means me,” Brienne piped up.  Tormund turned to look at her, the surprise evident on his face.  “I asked her to bring me to Wintertown… to you.”  Brienne bit her bottom lip, feeling nervous all of a sudden.

“So you’ve met each other,” Tormund replied slowly, as it just dawned on him that his daughter and Brienne had met without him introducing them to each other.  He looked mildly uneasy.  Tormund turned back to Munda, his hand never leaving Brienne’s hip.

Munda just smirked at him, as only sassy ten year olds can do to their fathers.  Then, hands on her hips, she stared up at her father and bellowed, “She’s mad cause you didn’t tell her about me.  And I’m mad you didn’t tell me about her!”  She stamped her foot to punctuate her anger and Brienne found herself having to press her hand to her mouth to hold in a laugh.  She ought to take Munda’s outburst seriously, considering they were on the same side after all, but the girl’s total commitment to her rage, and the size difference between the two of them, was entirely comical. Brienne nearly choked trying to keep herself composed.  She had been upset, it was true, and she still needed to talk to Tormund, but she was not nearly as charged up about it as Munda.  She saw Tormund glance at her, checking to see if she as angry as Munda was.  She wasn’t, obviously. Satisfied they both weren't currently furious at him, he looked back to Munda.

“You’re right,” Tormund confessed, letting go of Brienne and stepping forward to put his hands on his daughter’s shoulders. He knelt down to look her in the eyes.  “I should have told you about her.  I’m sorry.”

“Do you love her?” Munda asked, no longer as angry, but definitely curious.  Tormund paused.  Brienne held her breath.  Munda continued, “Cause some Jaime bloke loves her and he might steal her away.”

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Brienne froze, feeling utterly horrified by Munda’s announcement.  Tormund looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes searching her face. Brienne looked away, fearing her red, wide-eyed face wouldn’t let her hide anything from him.

“Alright, Munda.  That’s enough.” Tormund growled.  He stood up, one hand still on Munda’s shoulder and nudged her to turn around and move forward.  “We’re going home.” Munda obeyed, grudgingly, stomping forward.   They took a few steps away, leaving Brienne standing there, her feet feeling rooted to the ground.

Tormund turned around, reaching out his other hand to her.  “You coming?” he asked warmly.  Brienne nodded, striding forward to take his big paw in her gloved hand. With Munda in the lead, they made their way through the town square and down one of the snowy roads lined with stone houses.

“I think we need to talk,” he murmured to her, squeezing her hand gently.

Brienne nodded again, her apprehension returning quickly.   She found herself wishing they could forget the whole talking thing and skip to the kissing and making up part.  And yet she mumbled, “Yes, I think we do...”


	18. chapter eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That smooth motherfucker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hell yeah! That is all I have to say about this chapter.  
> And, of course, thanks to Jemster for awesome ideas and Escribo86 for super amazing editing!!
> 
> Don't forget to tell me your thoughts about Tormund's inner monologue!

They sat side by side in the small dead garden behind the stone house, the lantern between them casting their flickering shadows out on to the snow. Less than a foot apart, Brienne was perched on the rickety wooden stool where they sat as they skinned their hunting spoils while Tormund was slumped on the round chopping block. He had sent Munda inside with a kiss on the forehead, telling her to let Brenhild know there’d be an extra guest for supper, and with a strict order not to eavesdrop.  She would though, undoubtedly.  It was a bad habit he had yet to break her of. Though, if he was being honest, he was partly to blame.  There had been so much over the last couple of months that he hadn’t told her, hadn’t known how to tell her.  His relationship with Brienne was just one of many things.   And if Munda hadn’t spied, she likely wouldn’t have known half of what was going on in their family or with their people.  Of course, the idea of Brienne couldn’t have been that shocking to her.  Tormund had taken lovers before, half a dozen or so over the last several years.  But never anyone like Brienne.  He doubted there was anyone like her in all of the known lands.

And she was upset with him.  

Tormund looked over at her then, sitting there with her back perfectly straight, her long legs bent in front of her, a strand of her impossibly blond hair coming loose from behind her ear and blocking him from seeing all of her face.  He wanted to reach out and brush it away.  Tormund wanted to touch her, to feel her lips on his, to make her grin at him again.  He hated the way she could turn her face to stone, hiding behind those steely blue eyes, refusing to let him in.  She was doing it right now.

Neither of them had said a word since they sat down.

Where to start?  He knew what he wanted.  He wanted to find out about this Jaime cunt, demand she explain what the hell Munda was talking about. But something told him to keep his damn mouth shut.  He didn’t really have a leg to stand on here, did he?  So he gritted his teeth and held his tongue.  She had come to him to talk and so he would wait and let her start the talking.  But if this was some sort of battle of patience to see who could wait the longest before speaking, he was surely going to lose.

Thankfully, Brienne shifted her weight and turned her body toward him.  She shoved her hair from her face and raised those gorgeous eyes to meet his.  It was like staring into two icy blue crystal pools.  He wanted to drown in those eyes.  She took a slow breath.

“You have a daughter,” she said bluntly.  Tormund chuckled.  That was just like her, wasn’t it?  Straightforward, deadpan, to the point.  

“I have two daughters, actually,” he replied, just as forthcoming.  He noticed her eyes widen slightly.  “Noor, my oldest, is ten and four. She’s with her aunt at the camp near Castle Black.  She didn’t want to come so far south.  And if you haven’t noticed, my daughters aren’t particularly obedient.  When they set their minds to something, they do it.”  He grinned at Brienne, clearly proud of his strong-willed daughters.  She just stared back at him, mulling over what he was telling her.  “Noor grew up in the shadow of that wall and I think she’s afraid to leave it,” he admitted.

“And Munda?” Brienne asked quietly.

“Munda’s not afraid of anything,” Tormund stated with a grin, before a frown settled on his face, “Except me leaving for so long again.”  He looked away from Brienne then and raised his eyes to gaze at the increasing number of stars that were appearing in the darkening sky.  He had had to leave his girls behind to follow Mance.  It was the right thing to do, fighting for a better life for all of them.  But he still felt guilty about it.

“And their mother?” Brienne murmured, her voice sounding pinched.

“Dead,” he muttered.  He kept his eyes on the sky.  “Been almost five years now.  She was… my wife.”  Tormund paused, lowering his head.  “It was hard.  The girls really struggled.  They were so young.”  There was more he could say.  So much more.  He could tell Brienne how losing his wife had almost destroyed him, how his part in her death still haunted him.  That he would have given up, surely, if not for Noor and Munda.  He didn’t say any of that, though.  It wasn’t his way.  He sat there, staring at the ground, silent, until he felt Brienne’s gloved hand slide over his arm and grip his hand tightly in hers.

He grasped her hand back for a moment and then loosened his hold on her.  Using his other hand, he gently tugged on the leather covering her fingers, slowly pulling off the glove.  When her hand was free of it, he entwined his fingers with hers, her palm against his, the warmth of her skin against his chilled hands.  It felt good.  She always felt good in his hands.

“Tormund,” she breathed and he looked up to meet her prying eyes.  “Why didn’t you tell me about them?”  She was hurt, he suddenly realized, not angry with him.  She thought he was keeping things from her on purpose.

He shrugged, “You know, for some reason, I don’t really understand it, but mentioning my dead wife and two daughters doesn’t seem to make women want to fuck me.”  He laughed dryly and she made a peeved face at him, her nose wrinkling adorably in her distaste at his joke.

He laughed again and brought her hand to his lips, kissing the back of it.  “When would I have told you?  And honestly, Brienne, when I’m around you… sometimes you’re all I can seem to think about.”  She was embarrassed by that, lowering her eyes, the captivating pinkness instantly staining her porcelain skin.  Fuck, he loved it when she blushed.  How could a ferocious fighter like her be so affected by a mere compliment, a simple confession of his desire for her? She was a beautiful contradiction.

“Besides, I’m obviously not a maid.  It would be more odd if a man my age didn’t have a couple children running around, don’t you think?”  She nodded slowly, appearing to understand that he had meant no ill will.

“Will you forgive me then?  Or do I need to get on my knees and beg?” Tormund grinned.  

She rolled her eyes at him and muttered, “I forgive you.”

“Good,” he said.  “Come here then,” he demanded, tugging on her hand.  She stood slowly, seeming confused by what he wanted.  He pulled her toward him, his hands on her hips as he guided her down so she was sitting across his lap.  She sat stiffly, her arms at her sides, clearly not knowing what to do.  He chuckled at her awkwardness, taking her hand and winding her arm around his neck.  One of his hands curled around her waist, the other slipping under the flaps of her gambeson to rest on her thigh.  He loved the feel of her weight on him, her firm ass pressed against his lap.  He had to be careful though.  He didn’t want to enjoy it _too much_ and scare her away.  He was eye level with her chest and he greatly wished she wasn’t wearing her damn armor.  Tormund leaned forward to kiss her neck, just at that spot where he could feel her blood pulsing beneath his lips, the spot he had learned made her gasp and shudder in his arms.  She did just that and Tormund couldn’t help but smirk.  He hugged her tighter to his chest and felt her relax in his arms.

“So who is this Jaime fucker?”  

Tormund was almost completely certain that if he hadn’t been holding her securely on his lap she would have bolted from that question.  As it was, her whole body tensed.  He saw the color drain from her face.  Her jaw muscle flexed as she gritted her teeth and turned her head away from him. Tormund’s brow furrowed.  Whoever his fucker was, he’d done a number on her, that was for sure.  Tormund felt his own temper flaring.  Who was this asshole?

“Tormund, please.  I don’t- I don’t want to talk about him,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.  He felt a twinge of regret for accosting her so suddenly, and he lightly squeezed her thigh in apology.   But his curiosity only grew.

“Should I be worried?” he asked plainly.  Brienne shook her head.

“Munda doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” she murmured.  “He never loved me.”  Oh, so that’s how it was. What a fucking cunt this Jaime bastard was, not man enough to appreciate an extraordinary woman like Brienne.

“But you loved him?” Tormund replied gently, reaching up and catching her chin in his hand.  He gingerly shifted her head so she was facing him again, though she wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“I… I did,” Brienne conceded, finally raising her eyes to meet his.  She looked so intensely sad that Tormund found himself speechless.  And despite her pleas to not talk about it, she kept going, the words tumbling from her lips all at once.  “He was my captive and I was tasked with returning him to King's Landing in exchange for Sansa.  He did everything in his power to try to provoke me, to make me fight him.  I wouldn’t,” she said, her voice grim.   

Hmm… she had started out detesting him and then it had turned into something else.  That sounded eerily familiar.  He watched her closely.  But she stared straight ahead as she continued her story, Tormund frowning as her voice became flat and cold.

“We were captured by some Bolton men.  They tied me up.  They were going to rape me.  All of them.”  Her grip on his shoulders grew tighter and Tormund responded by wrapping both his arms around her and drawing her closer to him.   It turned his stomach to hear her recount such an awful memory.  It was sickening.  And infuriating, sending a hot rage creeping down his body.

“Jaime convinced them not to touch me.  He saved my life, more than once.  We saved each other really."  She hung her head then, a shaky breath leaving her perfect lips.  Surprisingly, Tormund found himself feeling deeply grateful to the asshole for being there to protect Brienne.

“He gave me this armor.  And his sword to fulfill my oath,” she mumbled, drawing herself closer to Tormund and nuzzling to him, her cheek pressed against his.  Tormund was stunned and could only sit there with his mouth open.  Her armor?  Tormund had never seen finer armor in his entire life.  And it was a gift from him, along with _his_ sword?  There was no possible way he didn’t love her.  Tormund was certain of it.  He didn’t know if he should feel relieved, or saddened, that she wouldn't believe it could be true.

With her pressed against him, Tormund couldn’t see her face as she whispered, “I saw him at Riverrun.  I never thought I would again.  He wouldn’t take his sword back, even though I’d found Sansa.   He said it was mine, it would always be mine...”

That smooth motherfucker.

Tormund would bet both his balls that Jaime loved Brienne, though why he hadn’t made a move on her was completely beyond him.  Maybe he was secretly an eunuch?  Even though Brienne said he needn’t worry, he couldn’t help but feel agitated, overwhelmingly jealous, and entirely possessive of her.  She had seen Jaime only a couple weeks ago and it was depressingly obvious to Tormund that she was far from over him.

“Why don’t you think he loves you?” Tormund found himself asking stupidly.  He was a fucking moron.  It wasn’t the type of question that would help her get over the fucker.  Shit.  What was he thinking?

Brienne scoffed at him, sitting up slightly to look Tormund in the face.  “He is Jaime Lannister!  Why would he?  How could he?” she spat, angry, glaring down at him like he had asked the most asinine question imaginable.  She was so quick to anger.  And Tormund found that the raw energy of her fury buzzing beneath her skin turned him on. Just the idea that she could beat the ever loving shit out of him if she wanted was more than enough to excite him.  Tormund shifted his weight beneath her, not wanting her to feel the evidence of just how quickly she could make him hard.

“Easily, Brienne,” he said, staring straight back into the blue lightning crackling in her eyes, his voice deep and earnest.  “He could easily love you. Trust me, I know.”  The rosy flush returned to her cheeks mere seconds after the almost confession of his own love for her left his mouth.  She looked down demurely, pressing her lips together as though she was trying to stop herself from speaking.  He waited, watching her, curious.

Brienne gripped his shoulders in her hands and raised her eyes to peer at him.  She wasn’t angry anymore…   She was something else now.  But he couldn’t read her face.

“Say it,” she demanded, her voice brazen and yet fearful all at once.  Her bottom lip trembled as she stared down at him, her fingers digging painfully into his back.  She needed to hear him say it.  It made sense, after what she had been through.  She needed to hear the words out loud.

Tormund reached up and caught her blushing face in his hands.  He stared intensely back at her, no hint of hesitation in his voice.  

“I love you. _I love you, Brienne._ ”  He saw the tears fill her eyes,  but only for the smallest second, before she shoved herself to him and pressed her quivering lips to his.


	19. chapter nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bear beats lion!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much fucking fluff! You all are gonna die.  
> Thanks for Escribo86 for all the awesome editing help! Please check out her Sansa & Petyr Baelish Modern AU fics: [This Was Their Thing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7880383) and [Finding the Firsts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7888399/chapters/18018721)!  
> Also, I am starting a new job and I will probably be updating only once, maybe twice, a week from now on. I'm sorry! But that's just how it goes. Now that I got you all hooked, I can toy with you! LOL, just kidding! I really am sorry. But I want to keep things good! And that means taking my time. Please keep reading!!!  
> As always, I love all your comments and thoughts! <3

_I love you._

Those three words shattered the last remnants of the walls she had painstakingly built around her heart.  She kissed him deeply, desperately, as she clung to him, tasting her own salty tears as they spilled from her eyes and slid down her face.  He kissed her back just as emphatically, his hands never letting go of her wet cheeks.  He was intent on showing her with his passionate kisses, as well as his words, that he truly loved her.

She knew not how long they kissed, all sense of time becoming meaningless in comparison to the feel of his lips, tongue, and hands on her.  She only knew that her lips did not leave this until she felt like her heart might burst from his ardent affection.  Brienne pulled back slightly, trying to catch her breath, as he brushed the remaining tears from her cheeks with his thumbs.

“I hate it when you cry,” he murmured, the corners of his lips pulled down in a frown.

“I hate crying too.  But these are happy tears at least,” she sniffled, putting her hands over his and then tugging them from her cheeks so she could hold them, interweaving their fingers. “Be grateful this is the only time you’ve seen me cry,” she added, realizing that this was second time today she had cried.

“But I have seen you cry before,” Tormund countered with conviction.

“When?” Brienne demanded.  A small mischievous smile appeared on his bearded lips.  He clearly knew something she did not.

“The first night you returned to Winterfell,” he confessed with a guilty shrug of his shoulders.

“But… but you were so drunk!” Brienne protested, shaking her head in bewilderment.  She felt a twinge of embarrassment that she had been so bold when she had admitted her desire to be with him that night.  “I thought you wouldn’t remember!”

“I figured as much,” Tormund said with a laugh, pulling one of his hands from hers to gently tuck a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear.  “But you don’t know how much we Giantsbanes can drink!  They don’t call me the Mead-King of Ruddy Hall for nothing.”  

Mead-King?  Did he really go by that title?  Brienne laughed then, her embarrassment leaving quickly.  So what if he had heard her confession?  It certainly had turned out alright.  She kissed the tip of his nose.  “I’m glad you heard me say all that, Mead-King,” she murmured, grinning down at him.  He returned her grin with an even wider smile of his own.

“I love you,” he said, _again,_ as though now that he had opened the floodgates of his affection, he could not stop himself.

“I know,” she laughed, that same feeling of giddiness that had washed over her when they had first kissed returning ten fold.  This was really happening, wasn’t it?  They were in love.  Tormund reached a hand up to the back of her neck and tugged her down to him, softly meeting her lips with his own, his beard tickling her chin.  Brienne sunk into the kiss, letting herself be overwhelmed by him again.  It was as though she was falling onto the softest feather bed, diving into the warmest hot springs, sliding into the supplest leather armor.

Neither of them heard the footsteps approaching on the crunchy snow.

“I should have known,” a blunt, female voice interrupted Brienne’s reverie.  Their kiss ended abruptly, Tormund pulling back and turning his head toward the sound.  Brienne did the same, her eyes following his to see a woman standing there, her arms crossed over her chest, scowling at them. She was nearly as tall as Tormund and had the same red hair, the same fiery eyes, and the same undeniable strength in her stance.

“Brienne, meet Brenhild.  Brenhild, meet Brienne,” Tormund said with a chuckle.  Brienne felt instantly awkward at being caught in Tormund’s lap, her tongue practically down his throat.  She stood quickly, her hands moving to her waist to straighten her belt, as she silently (and uselessly) prayed her face would not turn bright red.  She nodded politely in greeting and couldn’t help but notice how Brenhild’s eyes widened as she rose to her full height.

“Now I understand why you haven’t been around,” Brenhild said with a loud snicker, the coldness in her eyes replaced with amusement as she goaded her little brother.  “She's a great giant of a woman. I can't blame you for wanting to climb her.”  Brienne was absolutely mortified.  

“Her name is _Brienne,_ ” Tormund replied, his voice sounded gruff, as he stood up beside Brienne, his hand finding hers and squeezing lightly.

“Alright.  Alright,” Brenhild replied with another laugh, her hands up in mock surrender.  “Supper’s nearly ready,” she said as she motioned for them to follow her as she turned and walked back toward the door to the house.  Over her shoulder, she called,  “Welcome, _Brienne,_ to our humble home. I hope you like venison.  My boy killed it himself.”

Not moving, Brienne turned her head to look over at Tormund, knowing her nervousness at meeting his family was blatant on her blushing face. He gave her a sympathetic look and squeezed her hand again, before leaning in and kissing her cheek reassuringly.

“No matter what kinda shit happens,” he joked, “just remember that you love me.  And you came here of your own free will.  I didn’t make you.”  His laughter only grew at her alarmed face.  

“Come on,” he urged, following after his sister and pulling Brienne along with him.  “I’m only teasing. They’ll love you.”  She did not find him funny, his joking doing nothing to lessen the uneasy feeling growing in her stomach.  And yet, she allowed herself to be lead towards the house.  She wanted his family to like her, and she wanted to like his family,  but she knew first impressions were not her forte.  

The first thing that hit her when she entered the stone house was the delicious smell of roast venison and baked bread.  Her mouth began watering almost immediately.  The second thing she noticed was the noise, the half a dozen or so people in the small room all laughing, talking, and carrying on, lit by a roaring fire and a variety of candles scattered around the room.  There was so much commotion and chaos, no one seemed to notice them enter.  Brienne was relieved; it gave her time to take it all in.

Brenhild navigated the crowded space to make her way to a boy, who looked about twelve or so, setting a long wooden table with a mishmash of iron plates and flatware.  He had curly brown hair with those unmistakable green eyes.  He seemed thicker but around the same height as Munda. Brenhild said something to him and he grinned, letting her ruffle his hair and plant a kiss on his forehead.  He made an exaggerated disgusted face and then they both laughed, before returning to their chore of preparing the table for the meal to come.  

Tormund followed Brienne’s gaze and remarked, “That’s my nephew Toregg.  His brother Dryn, is the one roasting the venison by the fire.”  Brienne turned to look at Dryn, who was more man than boy.  Brienne guessed he was around Sansa’s age, broad shouldered and tall, the same rich brown hair as his brother, though he had the stubble of a growing beard on his chin.  He was crouched by the fire, intently focused on the browning meat, the crackling light casting his shadow behind him.  He turned and said something to the couple sitting behind him, raising his mug of mead in a gesture of goodwill before he drank.

Around the hearth, there were several chairs, and one of them was occupied by a very pregnant woman, her round belly protruding from her small frame. She looked happy, her young freckled face breaking into a wide grin at whatever Dryn was telling her.  Beside her, another man sat, a cup of mead in one hand and her hand in the other.  He looked just as young as her and he seemed to be arguing good naturedly with Dryn about whatever he had just said.  Their laughter filled the room.  “Rona and Joragvar,” Tormund explained, “Not related by blood, but misfortune.”

“Oh?” Brienne said, curious, turning to look at Tormund.  

His face was grim as he spoke.  “Rona’s family is all dead, some fighting crows, the rest at hardhome.  Her sister, Karsi, was the leader of the Ice-river clan.  She didn’t make it out, but her two daughters did.”  Yes, Brienne knew this.  Munda had told her.  Those were the two orphan girls that lived with them.  Tormund gestured to the two girls that were running around the room, trying to escape a growling Munda in a rousing game of chase.  They were squealing and laughing as Munda stalked them like a hungry wolf, her hands curled in mock claws.   

“Johnna’s the older one,” Tormund said. “She’s nine. And the other one is Ursa, my little bear.”  He stepped forward then and swooped up the little girl as she ran passed.  She shrieked happily, shouting “TORMY!” as she wiggled in his hands to wrap her little arms around his neck in an eager hug.  The girl couldn’t have been more than seven and looked utterly ecstatic that Tormund had arrived.  He grinned back at her and Brienne found herself smiling too.  But her shout caused the others to finally notice them as well, and Brienne held her breath as seven pairs of eyes turned toward her.

Brienne swore no one made a sound as they stared at her, slowly taking in the black metal armor, the long golden-hilted sword at her hip, the way she towered over all of them.   In her nervousness, she struggled to keep her hands at her sides and stop herself from reaching for Oathkeeper. She feared it would be interpreted as threatening when really it was only a way for her to comfort herself.

Thankfully, Munda broke the silence, hollering, “It’s the Lion Queen!”  She made another growling animal sound as she tumbled over to stand in front of Brienne.  “What kind of sounds do lions make?” she pressed, giving Brienne a wide smile as she looked up to her.  Brienne gulped, looking apprehensively at Tormund.  He gave her a coaxing smile, encouraging her with his warm eyes.

“They roar!” Brienne replied, kneeling down so she was face to face with Munda, her armor clanking against itself slightly.  Johnna moved closer too, but seemed too shy to come right up to Brienne.

“Roar?” Munda replied, her brow furrowing in confusion.  Brienne nodded, biting her lip and then deciding to just go with it.  She really couldn’t feel more awkward than she already did.  Brienne bared her teeth and gave Munda her best lion roar, trying to ignore the flushing feeling in her cheeks. The girl’s eyes grew wide with surprise and delight.  Tormund copied Brienne’s roar, his fingers tickling Ursa’s ribs and causing her to giggle uncontrollably.  Brienne stood, finding herself laughing too, as Munda turned and set her eyes on Dryn.  She launched herself at him with a thunderous lion roar.  He caught his cousin easily with one arm, the laughter from Munda’s antics spreading contagiously to him, as well as Rona, Joragvar, and even Toregg at the table. Dryn playfully pinned her to his side in a firm hug, teasing, "Bear beats lion!”

“Nuh uh!” she yelled, trying to wriggle away from his grasp.  Ursa roared too and Tormund put her down so she could run over and jump on Dryn’s back.  Johnna followed after and soon the lions overwhelmed the lone bear, Dryn chuckling as he let himself lose, the roars turning into giggles. Brienne couldn’t stop herself from smiling at the love that was so present in Tormund’s family.  She turned to look at him and found he was already gazing at her, a lovestruck look in his eyes.

“Stop,” she murmured, bumping her shoulder gently into his.

“No,” he retorted, curling his arm around her waist and pulling her against his side.  He turned back to the rest of them and said loudly, “Everyone! This is Brienne.”  And everyone replied with welcoming smiles and nods and friendly greetings.  Everyone but Brenhild, that is, who was busy putting the rest of the food on the table.

“Dryn,” she called, sternly,  “Enough of that.  Bring the venison.  I think it’s about time we ate.”   He obeyed quickly, as did the girls, seeming to know that Brenhild meant business when she gave a command.  The light mood that was present seconds before seemed to diminish somewhat, leaving Brienne feeling slightly puzzled.  But she moved with the rest of them to the table: Dryn carrying the meat, Joragvar having to pull Rona to her feet and help her waddle to the table, the girls scurrying like a bunch of squirrels underfoot, and Tormund with his arm still snug around her. She sat beside him on one of the long wooden benches at either side of the table.  Munda made a point of squeezing in on the other side of her. Brenhild sat at one head of the table, the other end empty.

There was no ceremony as they all began to promptly fill their plates.  Tormund cut thick slices of venison and passed them down the table while bowls of some root vegetable Brienne did not recognize and hearty loaves of bread circled around.  And there was mead, lots and lots of mead. And even more noise and laughter and conversation. It was nothing like her own subdued family dinners.  Brienne found that she liked it and quickly felt more at home here than she had ever felt in her own home.   

Even their rather crude manners didn’t bother her all that much.  She found herself chowing down on the meal with the best of ‘em, the mead making her belly warm.  They talked of recent hunts, the weather, and of news from the other free folk camps.  Brienne mostly listened, surprised that they all seemed to listen to each other, even when Munda or Toregg or even little Ursa spoke.  During a natural lull in the conversation, in which Brienne took a large bite of venison, Brenhild loudly cleared her throat.  Her authority was obvious, and the whole lot of them turned their eyes to her.

“Tell me, _Lion Queen_ ,” Brenhild sneered, the nickname that sounded sweet from Munda’s mouth seemed snide coming from hers, “when can we expect some Giantsbane bastards?  I can’t imagine a rich southron lady such as yourself marrying one of us filthy wildlings.”

The room fell silent, the air instantly thick with tension. The only sounds were Brienne’s sharp inhale and the crack of Tormund’s knuckles as he clenched his fists.  


	20. chapter twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I broke our promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? Families are tough. But hopefully, deep down, there's love.  
> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts! Comments and critiques always appreciated!!
> 
> Thanks to Escribo86 for all the awesome editing help! Don't forget to check out her Sansa & Petyr Baelish Modern AU fic: [Finding the Firsts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7888399/chapters/18018721)!  
> 

The combination of a bite of venison and a shocked gasp was not a good one.  In response to Brenhild’s unprovoked attack on her character, Brienne could do nothing but cough violently lest she choke.  She reached for her cup of mead, taking a gulp, and hoped the burning in her throat would subside so she could defend herself.  

Tormund, however, was not impeded from saying what was on his mind.  He glared at his sister, his eyes like daggers dipped in fire.  “You will NOT talk to her like that,” he snarled, his fists trembling at his sides.

Brenhild laughed.  She _laughed_ in his face.  “I will talk however I want to talk.  This is my home,” her voice was calm and cool, seething ice to Tormund’s crackling fire.  She narrowed her matching eyes at him, leaning casually back in her chair, daring him to challenge her.  Brienne’s blue eyes darted from one to the other, feeling her pulse pound as the tension in the room only grew.  She wondered absently if it was normal for arguments among free folk, even free folk siblings, to come to blows.  She hoped not.

“Your home!? You lived here less than a week,” Tormund growled, his sister’s nonchalance only seeming to push him farther towards the sparking explosion of his temper.  Brenhild pounced on his words.  

“Well it’s longer than _you’ve_ been here.  You’ve been gone, hiding behind those castle walls, sucking up to kneelers, and stuck between her legs.” Brenhild gestured flippantly to Brienne, who had finally cleared her throat enough to reply.  She was utterly appalled that Brenhild would talk like that and in front of the children no less.  But Brienne found that now that she could speak, she knew not what to say.  Her eyes darted to Ursa and Johnna across the table, concerned that they were hearing all of this.  Johnna’s head was down as she poked at the food left on her plate.  Ursa looked like she might cry.  Rona reached out a hand for her young niece, pulling her closer to her.  

Brienne frowned, her anger only intensifying.   What the hell was wrong with Brenhild?  Why was she so intent on ruining a perfectly enjoyable family dinner?  Neither Brienne or Tormund were able to get in a retort, however, before Brenhild continued her tirade, her voice growing more and more angry with each word.  She appeared unable to keep up her aloof facade, sitting up straighter as she jabbed at her brother with her words.

“You don’t even know what’s going on with your own people anymore!  We’re running low on  food and firewood.  There are too many old people and children, not enough who can maintain the camps and hunt and work and fight.  A gang of raiders attacked the camp up north and stole a fourth of their supplies! But you don’t know anything about that, do you?  Because you’re too busy drinking mead with your precious Crow King.”  It was obvious to Brienne then that Brenhild’s attack on her had little to actually do with her.  She was mad at her brother and Brienne had just been caught in the crossfire.  They were all caught, really, in a fight between brother and sister.  Though from the jaded looks on the others faces, Brienne assumed that angry outbursts from Brenhild were not that uncommon.

Tormund slammed his fists on the table at Brenhild’s accusation and jumped to his feet.  “The only fucking reason you are even in this house is because of me!  I’ve been telling Jon what our people need!”  Ursa whimpered and Johnna flinched at the sudden loud noise.  Toregg was staring at the floor while Dryn looked chagrined by the whole situation.  Brienne saw Rona and Joragvar look at each other and nod before they began standing up, indicating to the others to do the same.  Munda folded her arms over her chest and remained sitting next to Brienne, refusing to budge.

Brenhild jumped to her feet too, her chair scraping loudly against the floor.   She scowled at her brother as her voice took on a biting sarcastic tone, “Oh yes, how wonderful.  How wonderful for the two dozen or so families in Wintertown, living off of the charity of the Crow King!  That’s exactly what we need!  But what about the rest of them, huh?  What about the free folk that are freezing in tents, hungry, scared?”  

Brenhild paused for a second, glaring and panting at her brother who returned her stare with one just as intense.  She quickly continued, her voice still harsh but now it took on a hint of pleading desperation.  “ We need walls, Tormund.  We need walls between us and the coming storm.  We need walls to keep out the white walkers and the northerners that hate us.  Will your precious king give us walls?  No, we get the leftover, falling down, stone shacks no one else wants.  Your king is useless.”

“He is not fucking useless,” Tormund snarled in response.  “Jon saved us!  He got us through the wall!”  Tormund was nearly shouting now, his face turning red with fury.  

Brenhild snatched the plate in front of her and threw it against the wall.  There was a thunderous crash as stone hit metal.  “Not all of us!” she cried, her eyes wide with ire.  Brenhild took a shaky breath, her hands coming up to cover her face.  

And then she was crying, her shoulders trembling as the sobs wracked over her body.  Brienne was stunned.  So was Tormund, apparently, who just stood there for a moment, staring at his weeping sister.  

But only for a moment.  He sighed, his shoulders slumping as he moved slowly to her and put a soft hand on Brenhild’s shoulder.  She shrugged him off, turning away.  Tormund persisted, reaching out both his hands and pulling his sister into a firm hug.  She resisted again but finally gave in to him.  Brenhild cried against his shoulder, her fingers curling into fists in his furs.  Toregg and Dryn stopped their retreat to watch the sudden change in their mother, both looking completely aghast.  While they were used to her anger, it appeared as though her tears were something completely foreign to them and they knew not what to do.  Rona and Joragvar kept leading Ursa and Johnna up the stairs and away from the fray.

“I can’t- I can’t do this without him,” Brenhild wept.

“I know. I know,” Tormund soothed, the anger gone from his voice and replaced with a gentle assurance.  Brienne just watched, quiet, her anger fading too, though not as swiftly as Tormund’s had.  She understood that Brenhild had lost someone, recently too, and at hardhome from what it sounded like.  She wondered who.  It must have been someone Brenhild deeply cared for to make her act like this, Brienne thought, beginning to feel a pang of sadness for her.  Brienne lowered her eyes to her hands, uncomfortable at seeing Tormund’s sister so emotional.  She glanced at Munda beside her who looked as somber as Brienne felt.

“My uncle died,” Munda whispered to Brienne, her lips in a deep frown.  “Brenhild hasn’t been the same since.”  Brienne nodded, her frown matching Munda’s, who reached out and wrapped her little hand around Brienne’s large calloused one.  The small gesture was so touching that Brienne could muster no response.  

By now, Brenhild’s tears had slowed somewhat and she pulled herself back from Tormund’s hug to beseech him.  “We need you here, Tormund. I need you.  We all do,” she murmured, her eyes red and her cheeks shining with the residue of her tears.  Brienne, keeping her eyes down, suddenly felt guilty.  Had she really been keeping Tormund from his family?

“I’m sorry I’ve been gone so much,” Tormund replied, repentance in his voice. He moved to sink back on the bench beside Brienne, running a hand over the back of his neck.  “ I’ve been trying to do what's best for us.”  

“I know,” Brenhild murmured as she bent down to pick up the plate she had thrown, setting it back on the table.  She started towards her chair when Toregg, who seemed to have been frozen until that very moment, rushed forward and wrapped his arms around his mother’s waist, burying his head in the furs at her chest.  Brenhild’s face twisted with emotion as she held her son to her.

“I broke our promise.  I cried,” she whispered, her head hanging down in shame.

“It was a stupid promise,” Dryn replied, his voice harsh but his eyes soft.  “Father would have wanted us to cry.”  Brenhild nodded, seeming moved by her eldest son’s compassion, the tears pooling her eyes again.  Dryn stepped forward, unsure, as though he wanted comfort his mother like his little brother. He seemed to changed his mind, however, and slumped down on one of the benches.

“Don’t be an idiot, boy,” Tormund grunted at his nephew.  “Go hug your mother.”  Dryn raised his head, looking surprised by Tormund’s command, and then nodded.  He stood and moved to join his mother and brother’s embrace.  

Tormund looked over at Brienne then, his hand finding hers under the table.  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.  She turned her head to met his eyes and saw the angst on his face.

“Tormund,” she said softly, her hand tightening around his, love in her eyes.  “It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not,” Brenhild’s voice interjected and both Tormund and Brienne raised their heads to look at her.  Toregg was still clutching her waist, but Dryn had stepped away, busying himself with tidying up the leftovers from supper.  “I should not have spoken to you that way, Brienne.” She paused then, looking as though she was gathering up the courage to continue, before she asked, “Can you forgive me?”  

It was Brienne’s turn to pause, looking over at Brenhild, feeling a tumultuous mix of emotions.  But she knew the right thing, the kind thing to do. “Of course,” Brienne replied, nodding at her.  Brenhild looked relieved and managed a weak smile in return.

“Alright then, enough excitement for one night. I think it’s about time for bed,” Brenhild said, taking Toregg’s chin in her hand and looking down at him lovingly.

“But it’s so early!” he frowned.

“I’m not even tired!” Munda added, trying and failing to stifle a yawn.

“Aye, but we’re wasting candles.  We sleep when it’s dark!” Tormund said with a grin.  He let go of Brienne’s hand and stood. “Come on, Munda. I’ll tuck you in”

“No!  I want Brienne to!” Munda protested, holding tight to Brienne’s hand.  Brienne looked down to Munda, who was begging her with wide green eyes to say yes.  

She chuckled, “Do you mind, Tormund?  I don’t think I’ll be able to pry her hand from mine if I refuse.”

“Go right ahead,” Tormund said, clearly amused.  “Just don’t let her trick you into listening to one of her stories.  They never end!”

“That’s not true!” Munda groaned.  Tormund just laughed, bending over to kiss her forehead.  She let go of Brienne’s hand to wrap her arms around his neck and hug him back.  “Goodnight Papa,” she said before planting a loud smack of a kiss on his cheek.  She laughed and let go of him, jumping down from the bench and grabbing Brienne’s hand again.  “Come on!” she urged.  “I want to show you my collection of…” then Munda paused, looking guilty.  “I mean I want to go to bed right away.”  She laughed again, tugging Brienne toward the stairs.

Brienne followed along, Toregg and Dryn trailing behind after they each bid their mother goodnight.  Just before she lost sight of them, Brienne saw Tormund and Brenhild sit down at the table again, clearly intending to continue their conversation, though now when they looked at each other, it was with kindness instead of acrimony.


	21. chapter twenty-one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you sure?” he sputtered, awe in his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I know I said I was going to post less now. BUT this chapter was already mostly written a while ago. So, you're welcome!!!!!
> 
> A huge thanks to Jemster and Escribo86 for editing help!!
> 
> PLEASE don't hate me!!!!! Things are happening! Just maybe not as fast as some of you want! :D  
> Feel free to yell at me in the comments! But seriously, I love hearing all your thoughts and ideas. Comments give me life!!

Brienne came back downstairs some time later to find Tormund sitting in front of the hearth, a mug of mead in his hand and his legs stretched out as he leaned back in one of the large wooden chairs around the fire.  He looked relaxed.  And he looked handsome, the only light in the room coming from the flickering fire beyond him.  It illuminated his strong profile and red beard.  Brienne softly laid her armor, belt and sword on the table, then tugged off her heavy gambeson and left it there too.  She stretched languidly, grateful to be rid of the confining ensemble, before crossing the room to him.  He raised his head as she drew near, a warm smile coming to his lips as he looked up at her.

“Munda asleep?” he asked, sitting up and scooting back on the chair.  He patted the space in front of him.  He wanted her to sit there?  Brienne gave him skeptical look.  He purposefully patted the spot on the chair between his legs again and winked at her.  Brienne rolled her eyes, but found herself grinning anyway and moving to sit in front of him.  To her surprise, there was enough room for both of them, if they cuddled close to each other.  She settled herself between his thighs and then leaned back against him, her own legs stretching out in front her.  He wrapped one arm around her waist, the other still holding his mead, as he rested his chin on her shoulder.  She could feel the heat of the fire on her face and strong muscles of his chest against her back.  He had shed his heavy furs as well.

“I doubt it,” she said, finally answering his question.  “Munda wanted to try on my armor.  Then Johnna and Ursa had to try too.  I got them all riled up.  Who knows when they’ll finally fall asleep?” she said with a dry laugh, running her hand along his arm and then lazily brushing her fingers against the back of his hand.   She was quiet for a moment then, staring at the fire, thinking about herself as a young girl.  She heard Tormund take a drink of his mead.

“I remember how hard it was,” she murmured.

“Hmm?” he inquired, kissing the curve where her neck met her shoulder.  

“I remember being that age and missing my mother so badly.”  He set his mug on the floor so he could wrap his other arm around her.  She hadn’t told him about her family and she could sense that he was paying close attention.  

“When did she die?”

“I don’t know.  I was so young when she passed.”  She took a breath, relaxing more against him.  “How can you miss someone you don’t even remember?”  She didn’t expect him to answer that question.  There was no answer, only the aching feeling of losing something she never had. Instead, he gathered her snugly to his chest.  He kissed her again, higher this time, behind her ear.  She closed her eyes to relish his touch.

“I don’t want Munda to ever hate me,” she muttered after a moment.  “I hated the women my father brought home.  I hated them all.”

“Munda could never hate you.  She practically worships you.”  He chuckled, adding, “I guess that runs in the family.”  Brienne smiled, reaching a hand up to tangle her fingers in his thick hair.  Tormund’s hands snuck beneath the fabric of her tunic, sliding over the taut muscles of her stomach. She tilted her head back, resting it against his shoulder.  His hands felt so good on her.

“I don’t think your sister feels that way.”

“Ahh, she doesn’t like anyone when she first meets ‘em.  Especially if she thinks they might be able to beat her in a fight,” he teased.  His voice grew more solemn as he said, “Give her time.  She hasn’t been herself lately.”

“Did you work things out?”

“As much as we could.  I said I’d try to be around here more.  And I’m gonna stay for the meeting with the elders tomorrow.  I don’t think there’s anything I can do right now to make her happy… but I can try.”  They were both quiet then, lost in their own thoughts.  The fire crackled and popped.  It was Tormund that broke the silence.

“What about you? You got any brothers or sisters I should be wary of?” he asked.  She could hear the grin in his voice, “Not that it’ll be a problem.  I can make anyone like me.” 

Brienne laughed at that.  He had a point though, even in his arrogance he was somehow charming.  She shook her head against his shoulder and said, “It’s just me and my father now.”  She paused for a moment before adding wryly, “You’d think being the sole heir to House Tarth would make me a good marriage prospect.  But no.  He tried though… three times.”

“You were almost married three fucking times?” Tormund asked, astonished, his hands never ceasing their exploration underneath her shirt.  He pushed her up gently, so he could run his hands up the smooth skin of her back.

“Well, almost is relative.  But yes.  I was betrothed as a child to the son of Lord Caron.  He died though, before his ten and third nameday, before we could wed.  If he had lived… my life would have been completely different.”  Brienne frowned, wondering how many children she would have now if her betrothed had not gotten ill and perished.  Tormund’s hands were warm and comforting on her bare skin, pulling her back to the present and helping her to leave the past behind.

“The second was Ser Ronnet Connington,” she continued, her voice bitter.  “I was only ten and two when I met him.  He was ten and eight but we were the same height.  I was so nervous I could barely speak.  He took one look at me and turned on his heel and left.”

“What a cunt!” Tormund growled, his hands reached her shoulders and his strong fingers massaged the knot of tension he found there.  A quiet moan of pleasure tumbled from her lips.

“I got my revenge though,” she breathed, her head falling forward as he continued to rub the tight muscles in her neck.  “I utterly humiliated him at a tourney a few years later.  I beat him so easily.”

“Of course you did,” Tormund chuckled, his knuckles kneading down her spine.  The firm pressure hurt just a little, but in the most satisfying way.  

“So who was the last fucker?”

She was distracted by the back rub, reveling in the pleasure of his steady hands on her.  But she soldiered on, “He was my father’s last ditch effort to get me wed.  He was sixty and five.  I was ten and six.  He told me I was to be a proper wife… wear dresses, bear children, be obedient.” Tormund just laughed at that, stopping his delicious massage to listen to her story.  “I said I would only obey a man who could outfight me.”

“And?”  

Missing the feeling of his hands caressing her back, Brienne rubbed her hands along his brawny thighs as she declared, “I broke two of his ribs and his collarbone… and bruised his ego beyond repair.”

Tormund’s laughter only grew louder at that.  He leaned in and kissed the back of her neck, his lips still vibrating with laughter as they touched her.  “Damn right you did!” he chuckled.

She grinned at him.  These disappointing moments throughout her life somehow seemed less terrible when she confessed them to Tormund. He loved her.  Just as she was, just how she looked.  Brienne wiggled herself back against him, wanting him to touch her again.  She wanted his hands all over her and the sudden intensity of her craving for him was overwhelming to her.

“Tormund?” she asked, unable to keep the neediness from creeping into her voice.  She twisted her body to look back at him.  He met her eyes, arching one eyebrow in interest as she spoke, her face blushing furiously. “I want…  I want you.”  

A impish smile appeared on his lips. “Is that so, Brienne of Tarth?” he teased.  He reached his hand up and cupped her chin, leaning forward to kiss her, while his other arm pulled her tighter against him.  And purposefully against the growing bulge in his trousers.  Brienne pulled herself back from the kiss and gasped, her mouth falling open.   He chuckled at her reaction.

“Is that…?” she asked, feeling her face grow even hotter.  How long had he been hiding that from her?

“ _That_ is how much I want _you_ , Brienne,” Tormund grunted huskily, and then frowned.  “But we can’t, not here.”

“What?  Why?” she pouted.  Brienne pulled herself from him, stood up, and turned around.  His frown intensified at her departure until she climbed back on to his lap, straddling him, face to face with him now.  He looked up at her with a mixture of desire and frustration on his face. She could feel the evidence of his need for her pressing up against her.  His hands went to her thighs, rubbing greedily.  She curled her arms around his neck and pressed herself into him. “Please?” she whispered in his ear, her tongue sneaking out from between her lips to trace the outline of his ear before she pulled his earlobe into her mouth.

“Fuck!” he groaned.  “It’s not that I don’t want to!  Brienne, I want nothing more than to sink myself so deep into you and fuck you senseless till your eyes roll back in your head!”  She smiled triumphantly.  He reached up and caught her face in his hands, pulling her head back so he could look in her eyes.  

“Do you know where I’m sleeping tonight?” he growled.  “On a bed roll.  Right here by the fucking fire.  I don’t have a room because I’m hardly ever here.”   It was Brienne’s turn to frown now.  That was certainly not ideal.  He continued, “I don’t want my first time with you to be some quick hump in the dark before someone interrupts us!”  

Tormund tugged her face closer to his and kissed her softly, devotedly.  His voice became less gruff, more sensual, as he whispered in her ear. “I want to take my time with you.  I want to make you so soaking wet.  I want to savor every moan, every cry from your lips as I make you come over and over again.”  Just hearing his words caused her pulse to pound and a hot shiver to travel down her spine.  He sighed ruefully, “I can’t do that here.”   

Brienne whimpered.  She wanted him to do everything he just described.  She wanted it now.   “What about the inn?”

“Full.  It’s been full for weeks.”  He answered quickly, so quickly that Brienne knew he had already considered bringing her there.

“Then we’ll stay here!  I don’t care if they hear!”  That was a complete lie.  She knew it as soon as it left her mouth.  She would not be able to face his family tomorrow if they had all heard her moan his name in the throes of passion.

“Would you really be comfortable here?” he asked quietly.  “If at any moment, Ursa could come downstairs with a bad dream, or Dryn could try to sneak out to find some action of his own?  I don’t really want to hide behind a door again,” he added with a dry laugh.  Brienne frowned at him, even as she realized he was right.  She wouldn’t be able to relax, to really enjoy herself.  It was mind boggling to her that he cared so much about her comfort and pleasure that he wanted to wait.

“It’s not just about being loud and you know it,” he continued.  “Besides, hearing that kinda stuff is no big deal.  My people live in tents.  We’re used to hearing everything.  Hell, if you walked into a free folk camp and _didn’t_ hear someone fucking, I’d be worried,” he chuckled. “I imagine if we listened real hard we could probably hear Rona and Joragvar going at it right now.”  Brienne’s mouth fell open in total shock.

“But- but she’s huge!  How could they possibly…?”  She was utterly perplexed.  Tormund laughed boisterously at her reaction, his whole body shaking beneath her.  She didn’t think it was _that_ funny.

“Some women get really horny that far along,” he explained with a laugh.  “Especially if they’re carrying boys.”  That could not be true!  He was fucking with her.  He had to be!  Brienne glared down at him.

“What?” he grinned.  “I’m telling the truth! I swear!”

“Shut up,” she growled, pushing herself against him and catching his lips with her own.  She slipped her tongue between his lips as she pressed herself into his lap.  He moaned in her mouth, his hands tightening on her thighs.  Maybe it wasn’t possible for them to have sex tonight, Brienne found herself thinking.  But that didn’t mean they couldn’t have a little fun, right?  Besides, she owed him.  He had made her feel so amazing.  She wanted to make him feel just as incredible.  There was only one problem.  She had no idea how to do that.

Brienne ended the kiss slowly and when she pulled back from him, she could see that the pupils in his eyes were dilated.  He was panting, red-faced.  And he looked like he was in pain.

She pressed her forehead against his.  “Tormund, I want you to teach me,” she demanded, making her voice sound much more confident than she felt.   “I how want you to teach me how to touch you… how to make you feel good.”   He blinked at her.

“Are you sure?” he sputtered, awe in his voice.  

Brienne nodded, a sly smile coming to her lips.  “But if someone comes down the stairs, then we pretend we’re doing nothing…”

“Aye, my lady,” he said flirtatiously, his eager eyes revealing he would agree to just about anything she wanted in that moment. “Scoot back,” he said, and she did so, sliding back on his lap just enough so she was no longer sitting on his cock.  He gently grabbed her wrist and moved her hand to the bulge in his trousers.  She sucked in a breath as she felt how thick and hard he was, even through the fabric of his pants.  His hand was over hers as he guided her how to rub him, a hiss escaping from his teeth as she eagerly obeyed.  With his other hand, he grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her closer so he could encourage her with a hungry kiss.

Brienne was grateful for the sensation of his hot mouth on hers.  It kept her slightly distracted from the fluttery feeling of nervousness in her belly and the panicky voice in the back of her head that repeated, “ _Your hand is on Tormund’s cock!  What are you doing?  Your hand is on Tormund’s cock! What in all of the seven hells are you doing?_ ”

He bit her bottom lip softly and Brienne found herself moaning from his passionate kiss.  He brushed her hand away from him and Brienne was momentarily puzzled. Until she heard the wrestling of fabric and felt Tormund shift slightly beneath her.  The next thing she knew, he was taking her hand and curling it around his cock.  Brienne froze.  His skin was surprisingly soft there, but hard, like steel wrapped in velvet.  She could barely wrap her fingers completely around his girth.  His hand was over hers as he slid it slowly up and down the length of him.  She heard his breath hitch in his throat. Brienne pulled herself back from Tormund’s kiss to stare into his eyes.  She watched him closely as she slid her hand over him, his face contorting in pleasure with every stroke.  It made her grin to see how he responded to her touch.  

Feeling brave, Brienne took a breath, and finally lowered her eyes to take in the sight of his cock in her hand.  She immediately gasped.  


	22. chapter twenty-two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>    
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol, this was another really fun one to write! I hope you all have fun reading it. Let me know what you think.  
> More chapters coming soon! Comments & critiques always appreciated!
> 
> Big thanks to Escribo86 for all the awesome editing help. But blame her for the cliffhanger! It was her suggestion. :D  
> And don't forget to check out her Sansa & Petyr Baelish Modern AU fic: [Finding the Firsts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7888399/chapters/18018721)!
> 
> The incredible art in the summary is by [Elenatria](http://elenatria.deviantart.com/)! She is amazing. You should follow her on [Tumblr](http://elenatria.tumblr.com/) and tell her how fucking awesome she is!!!  
> Fun fact: Typically, daggers are between 7 and 12 inches. So there is that. Imagine at your own risk!!!

Brienne had seen the occasional penis before: Jaime’s when they had shared a bath and Pod’s accidentally during their many travels together. But she had never seen one erect.  

And Tormund’s was so big, longer than the dagger she kept hidden in her boot.  His cock curved up toward his stomach, bright red curls around the base, a throbbing vein traveling the length of him.  It was pale pink but with a slightly darker head, the tiniest bit of white liquid leaking from the tip.  Brienne found herself feeling relieved he had talked her out of having sex tonight.  She could not imagine how all of him could possibly fit inside of her.  Her hand looked comically small wrapped around him.  She gulped.

“You look terrified,” Tormund said with sympathetic smile, reaching his hand out to gently caress her cheek.  His palm felt cool against her warm face and she tilted her head into his hand.

“It’s… it’s bigger than I thought it would be…” she whispered, the blush on her cheeks only intensifying as she spoke.  He couldn’t help but chuckle at that.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured.  “I won’t go near you til you’re relaxed and ready… til you’re _slick as a baby seal._ ”  A teasing smile appeared on his lips.  Brienne laughed.  A baby seal?  Where did he come up with this stuff?  But she was reassured by his words,  at least a little, though she still wondered how in the world she would ever be ready for all of him.  He leaned forward to kiss her again, his hand moving over hers and nudging her to continue touching him.  She complied, wrapping her other hand around his cock as well.  She stroked both her hands up and down the full length of him and Tormund’s head fell back against the chair.    He reached out to grab her hips, his fingers digging in almost painfully in his fervor.

“Fuuuucccck,” he groaned, his brow furrowing.  “That feels _so_ good,” he managed to grunt in between heavy breaths.  He closed his eyes and Brienne continued to pleasure him with her hands, her confidence growing with every deliberate stroke.  She bit her bottom lip as she looked down at his throbbing cock between them.  Brienne suddenly felt the bizarre urge to lean over and lick him right there on the the end of his cock.  His mouth had felt so good on her… maybe it would feel good for him as well?

After hesitating for only a moment longer, she decided to give it a try.  Her tongue was timid as she slid it over him, tasting salt.  Tormund’s eyes flew open and he nearly bucked her from his hips.

“I’m sorry!” she exclaimed, the words leaping from her lips, worried from his strong reaction that she had done something wrong.

“Oh gods, Brienne, don’t be,” he growled, his eyes flashing with such intense lust that Brienne felt breathless staring back at him.  “Do you want to put it in your mouth?” he asked, or rather begged, his voice sounding strained.

“My mouth?” she replied, the uneasiness of her lack of experience evident in her voice.  Tormund nodded, sitting up a little more, and taking one of her hands in his.  He curled his hand around hers, pressing her thumb, ring finger and pinky into a fist.  He tugged her hand to his mouth and gazed at her as he parted his bearded lips and ran his tongue slowly along the tips of her pointer and index fingers.  Brienne drew in a quick breath, her eyes never straying from what he was doing.  He swirled his tongue around her fingers and then pulled them into his hot mouth, sucking gently.  His tongue continued to tease her fingers as he slid them in and out from between his lips.   Then Tormund winked at her, pulling her fingers from his mouth and kissing her palm.

She understood what he wanted.  She more than understood.  And she wanted to try, though she was still slightly nervous she would do it wrong. Brienne frowned.

“It’s alright,” Tormund said softly, kissing her hand again.  “You don’t have to.”

“I want to!” she replied stubbornly, sliding off his lap and settling on her knees between his legs.  She was eye level with his cock now and reached out a hand to run it up the length of him.   His emerald eyes grew wide, reflecting the dancing light of the fire.

“Shit Brienne!  I never thought in my wildest dreams I’d see you kneeling in front of me,” he breathed, looking down at her with pure amazement spilling from his eyes.

She grinned up at him and teased, “You are one lucky wildling.”  Then she leaned forward, one hand on his thigh and the other wrapped snugly around him.  She felt his whole body tense in anticipation of where she would touch him next.  Brienne felt nervous, but simultaneously, a surge of power.  He was in the palm of her hand, _literally._   Parting her lips, and pushing aside any of the uncertain thoughts whirling around in her hand, Brienne tentatively slid her tongue from the base of his cock all the way to the end before closing her mouth around the tip and sucking gently.

Tormund let out a strangled sound, like a whimper mixed with a growl, his hands curling into fists at his sides.  Brienne took that as a good sign and continued, trying to mimic how Tormund had glided his tongue across her fingertips and then bobbed his mouth over her fingers.  It quickly became apparent that Brienne needn’t have fret over how to please him.  It was not difficult to make him moan.  She felt slightly smug by how easily she could make him shudder and gasp and scrunch up his face in excruciating pleasure with just the flick of her tongue and the stroke of her hand.  Or maybe Tormund was just that good of a teacher.

No matter.  Brienne continued to explore him with her tongue, licking the base of his cock, up and down the entire shaft, rolling her tongue around all sides of him.  She took the tip of him in her mouth again, her tongue swirling around him, sucking a little harder this time.

Taking a little more of him into her mouth, she turns her blue eyes up to meet his.  Tormund gazes down at her from beneath eyelids heavy with pleasure.  He whispers her name.  Brienne slides her lips over him, back and forth, back and forth, her tongue busy tasting all of him.  Back and forth, back and forth, barely a third of him in her mouth, but enough so that Tormund is panting.   He sits up more, the muscles in his stomach tensing.  He reaches out and places a hand on her neck, urging her on.  Back and forth, back and forth, he says her name again; a benediction. Then he is pulling her back, away from him, his hand rough on her shoulder.  She’s confused, until he makes a guttural cry, and suddenly her hand is covered in thick, hot liquid.   She can feel his cock pulsing in her hand and he slumps against the chair, short of breath and utterly spent.

Brienne couldn’t help but smile, even with the mess in her hand and slight ache in her jaw.  The sated look on his face made her feel exceedingly happy.  She had done that.  She had satisfied him.  He turned his hazy eyes to her, returning her smile with a lazy one of his own, until he saw her hand covered in his seed.  

“I’m sorry,” he frowned, sitting up. “I should have prepared for that.”  Oh, so it was normal then.  Brienne had been wondering.  His hand circled around her wrist and then he stood up, tugging her gently to her feet as well.  He used his other hand to tuck himself back into his pants before he lead her to the kitchen area.  He let go of her to rummage around in the dim light and Brienne just stood there, feeling awkward, with her hand outstretched, afraid the sticky mess would seep from her hand and on to the floor.  At last, he found what he was looking for and let out a triumphant “A-ha!”

He reached into the bucket of well water and then turned to her, taking her wrist in his calloused hand and placing a damp rag in her palm.  The water was cold on her skin as he slowly wiped her hand clean, careful to remove every slimy trace from her fingers.  His attention to detail was somehow adorable and Brienne gazed fondly down at him.  He looked up at her when he was finished and an endearing dopey grin appeared on his bearded mouth.

“You love me,” he teased, tossing the rag aside and wrapping his arms around her waist.  He pulled her snug against him.  Brienne shrugged playfully, faking nonchalance.  He chuckled, “Oh, so you don’t then?  What you just did… that wasn't because you love me?”

“I told you I wanted to learn,” she replied, keeping up the game by pretending to be aloof.

“And did you enjoy the lesson?”

Brienne couldn’t help but laugh then.  “Yes.  Though I doubt as much as you did.”  His loud laughter joined hers, until he silenced both their chuckles with his mouth on hers in a heated kiss.  Brienne closed her eyes, sinking into him.  She felt him loosen one of his arms from around her and then lean over.  In the next moment, the world was tilting around her.  Or rather, Tormund was lifting her in his arms, her knees over one arm and her back against his other.  She gasped, curling her arms around his neck to hold on.  

“Tormund!” she yelped.  “What are you doing?”

“Carrying you to bed,” he replied matter-of-factly, that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes.  “Now the bedroll might not be the fanciest, but that don’t mean I shouldn’t treat you like the fine lady you are.”  Brienne couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear as he walked the ten or so paces to the bundle of furs by the fire where they would be spending the night.

“You’re a fool,” she teased, as he knelt with her in his arms and laid her gently on the soft furs.

“A fool you love,” he replied.

“Yes,” she murmured, her hands on his shoulders, pulling him toward her as she laid back.  She moved her hands to the back of his neck to tug his mouth down on hers.  His weight felt good on her, pressing into her, holding her captive.  She wanted to feel his warm skin in her hands.

Brienne pulled back from the kiss and demanded, “Take off your tunic.”  He chuckled at her bluntness, but pushed himself up from her to do what she ordered. He reached his hand over his shoulder to tug the fur tunic over his head and off.  He dropped it beside them, leaning back over her, his bare biceps on either side of her shoulders.  Brienne licked her lips as she smoothed her eager hands along his hard pecs, his chest hair tickling her palms.  His strong chest was so alluring.

“Remember, my lady, we are only going to sleep,” he teased, repeating the same words she had used on him all those nights ago.   Brienne frowned.  It wasn’t fair.  He was all happy and satisfied now, but what about her?  She was unable to stop her mouth from forming a little pout. He moved closer to her to kiss her, biting down softly on her protruding bottom lip.  She whimpered and returned his kiss with ardor.  They kissed for some time until Brienne pulled back from him, feeling completely breathless.  She would never be able to sleep if they kept kissing like that.  As it were, she felt restless, malcontent.

Tormund rolled off of her and sat up, tugging his boots off his feet and setting them aside.  Brienne did the same and then laid back down, a dissatisfied sigh escaping her lips. Tormund didn’t seem to notice, busy as he was arranging the furs around them.  There was barely enough to cover the both of them.  But the still-burning fire would keep them warm, especially if they cuddled together.

Eventually, Tormund lay down on the furs, scooting up beside her.  He was on his side, his head propped up in his hand, as he looked down at her. Brienne didn’t meet his eyes, and instead reached down to pull the furs up to her chin, snuggling herself into the pleasing warmth.  Damn his furs were wonderful, so comfy, so cozy.  And they smelled so strongly of him.  It was like being enveloped in a Tormund cloud.  Brienne closed her eyes and the memory of the night he had lent her his furs and she had been unable to stop herself from thinking of him, and touching herself, flashed in her mind.  She found herself wishing he was not beside her, so she could do the same tonight, if only to sate the aching desire that had been nagging at her since she had first sat in his lap.  Brienne wriggled beneath the furs, rubbing her thighs together, curling her hands into fists in his furs.  It was aggravating.  

She opened her eyes, only to see Tormund gazing down at her, an amused look in his eyes and the corner of his mouth pulled up with mirth. He was enjoying this!  She furrowed her brow as she realized he was _enjoying_ watching her squirm.

“Tormund!” she snarled, instantly angry.  He just chuckled, reaching a hand to her stomach, moving it idly over the fabric of her tunic.  It was his touch, yes, but it was frustratingly no where near where she wanted him to touch her.

“Aye, my lady,” he answered, feigning naivety with a shit-eating grin on his face.  “Is there something you want?”  Brienne growled like a feral animal.  Not this again!  He wanted her to tell him what she wanted.  He wanted to hear it out loud, to make her beg for it.  And she would do it, she realized, her need to be touched reaching a fever pitch.

Well fuck that.  She didn’t want to play his game right now.  Brienne reached for his hand, roughly grabbing his wrist.  She yanked it down, under the fabric of her pants and small clothes.  She glared at him, her eyes an azure storm, as she pushed his fingers between her already wet folds.  His mouth fell open, eyes wide, immediately forgetting his buffoonery as he felt how utterly drenched she was.  Brienne let out a gratified moan as she pushed his rough fingers to her aching clit, her eyes never leaving his.  Holding his hand in an iron grip, she rubbed herself against him, shivers of hot pleasure traveling up her spine and down her legs, rippling like fire in her veins.  

He was stunned.  She didn’t care, concerned only with getting what she needed.  Tormund recovered quickly, moving his fingers in unison with the thrust of her hips.  Once he was obediently doing his part, Brienne let go of his wrist and moved her hands under her tunic to her breasts. She did not care that he was watching as she squeezed them, tugging on her nipples, pleasuring herself just how she liked it.  If anything, it only spurned him on.  He slid his fingers lower, away from her clit, and Brienne glowered at him, until she felt his fingers circling her entrance. Her breath quickened.   

His eyes were locked with hers as he slowly, ever-so-carefully, slid one finger inside of her.  No one had ever touched her like that, herself included, and all she could do as the pleasure overwhelmed her was let out a breathy moan of surrender.


	23. chapter twenty-three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blue met green in a clash of passion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are happening!!! :O
> 
> As always, give me all your thoughts in the comments! I crave them!!! LOL
> 
> And a big thanks to Escribo86 for all the awesome editing help.  
> Don't forget to check out her Sansa & Petyr Baelish Modern AU fic: [Finding the Firsts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7888399/chapters/18018721)!

Brienne’s raspy moan was one of the most sublime sounds he had ever heard in his life.  Equally mesmerising was the way her brow furrowed and her mouth fell open, even as she continued to hold his gaze, the blazing rebellion in her eyes never fading.

Tormund doubted she had ever looked more beautiful.  He couldn’t look away.

He touched her with purposeful, steady strokes, his finger curling forward like he was beckoning her pleasure to come forth, to grow, to spread, to overwhelm her.  She bucked her hips when he slid his thumb back over her clit, caressing her duelly and hoping, in turn, to double her bliss. He felt a surge of warm wetness inside of her and slowly withdrew his finger.

The sheer betrayal and instant fury that sparked in her eyes made his pulse quicken.  She was so desperate for his touch, so frantic to find her release.  Tormund was overcome by her eagerness, feeling his own arousal stirring even though she had thoroughly satisfied him mere minutes before.  He couldn’t help it.  He was powerless against her enchanting eyes, flushed cheeks, husky moans, and incessant stubbornness.  Her shameless appetite was infectious.

But he had only removed his finger so he could add another digit to further slake her need.  He moved his hand slowly, cautiously, gliding two fingers into her this time.   Her eyes widened but then fluttered, rolling back in her head as he began to stroke her again, his fingers and thumb working in tandem to push her towards ecstasy.  

 _"Tormund_ ,” she cried, desperate, her voice thick with desire.  He changed his mind.  Her moaning his name was the most incredible, amazing, perfect sound he had ever heard in his entire life.  He wanted to hear it over and over again, knowing every time it was _him_ making her feel so good.   He wanted to hear her say his name like that every damn day until he died.

Brienne arched her back, her hands reaching down to grip his forearm and, he realized with a chuckle, to prevent him from removing his fingers from her again.  She rocked her hips against his hand, her head falling back and exposing her long, slender neck.  Tormund couldn’t help but lean forward, kissing her throat and then grinning as she sucked in a hasty breath as his lips touched her flushed skin.  He planted kisses down her neck until he reached the collar of her tunic.  Then he tilted his head lower, finding her erect nipple with his mouth and closing his lips around it, even though fabric separated her skin from him.   Brienne loosened one hand from his arm and nudged his head back so she could yank her shirt up, exposing her chest to him.  Damn, he loved her perfect little teats.  The small ones were always better: more sensitive, more responsive.  And they fit better in his mouth.

Tormund wasted no time before he was kissing, licking, and then sucking her teat.  Her hand found the back of his head, tangling her fingers in his hair and holding him to her.  Though it seemed practically impossible, he felt her become even wetter as he teased her nipple with his mouth.  She was panting, her body beginning to tremble.  

Brienne was getting close.  He could feel her tightening around his fingers, bearing down on him.  Fuck she was strong, even the muscles in her pussy.  He greatly wished his cock could replace his fingers.  Tormund couldn’t stop himself from fantasizing about how amazing it would feel to be buried deep inside her.  He would surely lose his mind with her long, muscular legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer.  Shit. Was he a complete idiot for talking her out of sex tonight?  Yes, he fucking was.  But he was an idiot that loved her.  And that meant putting aside his wild, animalistic craving for her and thinking about what she really needed… and deserved.  Tormund had never worked so hard to woo a woman in his life.  And if the waiting didn’t fucking kill him, he was certain that when they finally did the deed, the complete ecstasy of the experience very well might.  It was going to be the most incredible fuck of all time.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the way she shook around his hand and under his mouth.  He pulled back from her and turned his eyes to her face.  Brienne’s head was tilted back, her eyes squeezed shut, little moans and cries tumbling from her open mouth.

“Brienne,” he pleaded gruffly, “look at me.”  He wanted to see her face, he just _had_ to see her face this time when the orgasm claimed her.  She slowly tugged her head toward him, dragging her eyes open to look at him.  Blue met green in a clash of passion.  She whispered his name again, her hand on the back of his head slipping to grip his shoulder.  She was so fucking close, he could see it in her shimmering eyes.  He kept the stroke of his fingers consistent, steady, leading her right over the edge.

He could feel it happening, her muscles loosening around his fingers and the wetness spreading over his hand.  Her face twisted with rapture, looking as though she was in the thralls of the most agonizing pleasure.  And then she was convulsing around his hand: her back arching, hips bucking, legs shaking, hands digging into him.  Her moan started low, a throaty growl that grew quickly in intensity and volume.  Brienne pressed her mouth to his shoulder, her cry muffled as her teeth sunk into his flesh.

Tormund was startled by the bite, his hand slipping from her as he let out a low growl.  The pain was nominal but still surprising as it radiated down his arm.  She released her hold quickly, curling her whole body against his and burying her face in his neck. He wrapped his arms around her after wiping his wet hand on the furs beneath them.  He held her panting and trembling body snug to him, his other hand stroking her hair. The bite was definitely worth seeing her face so completely undone.  Hopefully, she had broken the skin and he would forever be marked by the intensity of her pleasure.  The thought caused a smile to pull at his lips and he turned his head to kiss the top of her head.  She was quiet, breathing hard, and he just held her tightly, having quickly learned that Brienne took a while to recover from her orgasm.  It was cute really, how dumbstruck she became.

 _Just wait until you feel my cock,_ Tormund found himself thinking with a smirk.  Except he didn’t think it; he said it outloud without realizing it. Brienne gasped, pulling her head from his neck to stare up at him, her blue eyes as big and wide as the full moon.  Oh shit.

Tormund let out a loud, rumbling laugh to cover his awkwardness.  She continued to stare up at him, utterly aghast.  He didn’t know what to say. So he reached a hand between them to cup her chin and tilt her head up so he could softly press his mouth to hers.  Her lips were stiff at first but she soon relaxed, their lips and tongues sliding against each other in a familiar dance.  When he pulled back, the flicker of fear had vanished from her eyes.

Tormund tugged her tighter to him and rolled onto his back, pulling her up alongside him.  Brienne nestled to him, her head resting on his bare chest, an arm curling around him, and one long leg thrust between his.  He had an arm around her too and slipped his fingers beneath her tunic to rub her lower back.

She sighed happily and then turned her eyes up to meet his, saying in a mocking voice, “Not ‘til I’m a baby seal, right?”  

Tormund could only laugh in response to that and she grinned smugly back at him.  Oh, she wanted to tease, did she?  Well, two could play at that game.

“You certainly bite like seal. If I’d had known that, I never woulda let you put my cock in your mouth.”  

Her jaw dropped in surprise, a flush coming to her cheeks. “It’s your fault!” she protested with indignation, sitting up slightly to glare down at him.

Tormund laughed again,“My fault?”  

Brienne nodded, her eyes looking as steely and stubborn as ever, though he swear he saw a glimmer of something else in there. Was she teasing him? He couldn't tell.  

“I _had_ to bite you. You were making me moan so loud! I would have woke up the whole house!  Hence, it’s entirely your fault.”  She pressed her lips together, seeming as though she was trying to stop herself from laughing.  He just looked at her skeptically, arching one eyebrow.  As much as she tried, she couldn’t keep it together.  Brienne slumped back against his chest, the giggles tumbling from her mouth.  Damn, she was adorable sometimes.

He was instantly laughing too, unable to resist her charm.  Their bodies shook with merriment until the laughter slowly faded.  Tormund hugged her tight to him, his heart feeling full.  Brienne laid her cheek back against his chest as a loud yawn escaped her lips.  Tormund yawned too, tiredness from the long day seeming to hit him all at once.  They lay there silently for some time until Brienne spoke, her voice hesitant, “I am sorry though.  I didn’t- I didn’t mean too.”

“I know,” Tormund murmured, craning his neck forward to kiss her forehead.  “I like it.  I hope it scars.”  She said nothing in reply, but turned her head to plant soft kisses along his chest.  Tormund smiled, closing his eyes.  He was content. And quickly falling asleep.

Until he heard the sound of heavy feet thumping down the wooden staircase.  It startled him and his eyes flew open.  He felt Brienne’s body stiffen against him as well.  Tormund strained his eyes to see in the flickering fire light and muttered, “It’s Joragvar,” as the outline of the soon-to-be father appeared in the dark room.  Both Brienne and Tormund watched as he rummaged through the kitchen, finding a plate and loading it with what looked like the remainder of the venison from dinner.

“Still hungry, huh?” Tormund asked with a chuckle, causing the young man to jump and nearly drop the plate.

“Shit! I forgot you were down here!” he replied with a nervous laugh of his own.  

“Sorry, mate,” Tormund called, feeling bad for nearly scaring the shit out of him.

“It’s alright,” Joragvar said with a shrug from his shoulders.  “It’s not for me anyway.  It’s for Rona.  She gets… uh, she’s get really hungry after.”  Joragvar laughed again, this time sounding nothing but proud.

“Good man,” Tormund commented, barely making out the grin on Joragvar’s face in the dim light.  The young man nodded and then took the plate and turned, heading back to the stairs.  “Night,” he called as he disappeared back into the shadows as he climbed the staircase.

“Brienne?” he said quietly, wondering if she was still awake.

“Hmm?” she replied, her voice sounding sleepy.

“Did you hear that?  He said _after_ …”  Tormund couldn’t stop himself from smirking.  “I told you so.”

Brienne just groaned against his chest and he was almost certain if he could see her face, she would be rolling her eyes at him.  But she snuggled closer to him and Tormund could hear her breath slow to a steady pattern as she swiftly fell asleep.  Tormund was less lucky, his mind wandering and preventing him from finding his own slumber.  

He hadn’t been lying to Brienne.  He could still remember with vivid detail how horny Gilwen had been when she was pregnant with Munda.  She had practically dragged him to their tent and climbed on top of him, her round belly preventing him from cupping her swollen teats.  He could hardly believe it himself as she rode him like he was a galloping horse.  All he could do was hold on to her hips and let her have at it, her loud moans echoing through their whole village.

It was like that for weeks.  She would get this burning look in her eyes and then she couldn’t have him inside of her fast enough.  She was insatiable.  It felt like they were falling in love all over again.  And then Munda came, with fire-kissed hair just like him, the perfect addition to their little family.  

Tormund clenched his jaw, pulling his thoughts back to the present before he was overwhelmed by thoughts of what he had lost.  

He turned his eyes to Brienne, the light from the fire illuminating her short, pale hair.  He raised a hand to stroke her soft locks, unable to stop himself from imagining a child, maybe a son, with hair as blonde as hers and as tall and strong as her.  He would be so proud to be the father of a child like that, a child with a mother as incredible as Brienne.

He wondered if she would ever want that, if she would ever let him spill his seed in her.   She would be so beautiful pregnant, her belly and breasts swelling and full.  She would carry it well too, her large frame easily accommodating the life growing inside of her. Tormund smiled at the thought of her swinging her sword with the best of them until the very end.  And then they would be forever bound to each other, the proof of their love a healthy, growing babe.

It was easy for Tormund to fall asleep now, dreaming of a beautiful naked Brienne pulling him to her bed and eagerly taking him inside of her. It was a familiar dream, one that had captivated his sleeping mind for weeks now.  But this time, it was different.  He dreamt of a Brienne with a thick, round belly, darkened nipples, and insides so full and sensitive to his touch.   


	24. chapter twenty-four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re a damn foolish woman,” he growled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get HOT in this chapter! Just maybe not how you all expect. :P
> 
> Sorry I took so long to post! I've been working on the next three chapters simultaneously. Good news is I should be able to get them all out in the next several days! WOO! Comments & critiques always appreciated!
> 
> And, as always, a big thanks to Escribo86 for all the awesome editing help.  
> Don't forget to check out her Sansa & Petyr Baelish Modern AU fic: [Finding the Firsts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7888399/chapters/18018721)!

Brienne woke abruptly in the middle of the night, not knowing what had pulled her from her slumber.  She was cuddled snugly against Tormund, the room having grown cold from the fire going out.  But it wasn’t the cold that had woke her.  It was something else.  Brienne sat up slowly, the furs sliding off her shoulder.   With narrowed eyes, she peered at the shutters closed tight in the window across the room.  There was a blaze of light outside.  But it was too early for the sun to be rising.  She heard a muffled shout and then… smoke.  She smelled smoke. But it wasn’t coming from their fire.  

Curious, and growing concerned, Brienne slowly untangled herself from Tormund and stood up.  She made her way to the window and fumbled with the latch to open the shutters.  They were stiff, nearly frozen shut, and Brienne had to use the full force of her swinging bicep to thrust them loose.  The hinges creaked loudly as Brienne swung them open.  Her eyes grew wide at the sight before her.

The thatched roof on the house across the muddy road was ablaze, flames crackling and leaping up into the dark sky.  But it wasn’t the only one. At least half a dozen of the homes she could see were on fire: thick, pungent smoke billowing from the windows.  How?  How had this happened? But there was no time to consider the cause.  Now was the time to act.  Brienne went from dazed to decisive in the blink of an eye. She ran back to the bedroll, swiftly kneeling down.

“Tormund!” she barked, shaking him awake with a firm hand on his chest.   He groaned and furrowed his brow, his eyes remaining shut. “Tormund!” she repeated, louder this time. She was unable to stop the fear from creeping into her voice. “Please!”

His eyes opened at her plea, taking a moment to adjust to the dark, before he focused on her distraught face.  “What is it?” he asked, his hand reaching out to touch her cheek.

“Fire!” she exclaimed, gesturing to the open window, even as she turned from him to reach for her boots and shove them on her feet.  “I don’t know how many, but the houses out there are on fire.”

She heard him suck in a surprised breath and then he was moving too, pulling on his tunic and ramming his feet into his boots.  “We have to help,” he urged.  Brienne nodded.  She jumped to her feet and he followed after her, pointing to the kitchen.

“Get every bucket, pot, and pail you can find.  Anything to hold water.  I’m gonna get my sister.” Tormund dashed up the stairs as Brienne rummaged through the kitchen, throwing whatever she could find on to the table. In a manner of minutes, she heard the thump of many pairs of feet coming back down the stairs; Tormund followed by Brenhild, Dryn, Joragvar, Toregg, and Munda.  They all looked sleepy, hair standing up, clothes wrinkled, but with eyes big and wide.

Once they were all gathered around the table, Tormund immediately and impressively took charge. “Toregg and Munda, bang on every door out there.  Wake everyone up.  We’re gonna need all the help we can get. Joragvar, Dryn, you have to get a line of people from the well to the houses to carry the water.  Get people organized.  Use anything that will hold water.  Brienne and I are going to make sure everyone is out of those burning houses.  Brenhild, after you help us get everyone outside, you help whoever’s injured.”

And with that, they were turning, heading towards the door, snatching up the various pots and buckets Brienne had found.  She followed last, the hum of adrenaline coursing through her veins.  She expected to be met with a blast of cold air when she exited the house, but there was none. Heat from the blazing fires hit her cheeks, the thick smoke stinging her eyes.  It was worse than she had thought.  The first two houses, nearest to the town square and the well, were completely engulfed in flames.  Families stood outside, watching the blaze, clutching each other. The other houses weren’t as bad, the fire just beginning to catch and spread over the thatched roofs.  The houses were stone, yes, but not the roofs and not the structures inside.  Whoever had started these fires knew what they were doing, Brienne found herself thinking.

Munda and Toregg took off running down the road toward the nearest house not on fire, the thud of their fists as they banged on the door echoing in the night.  Dryn and Joragvar took off in the other direction, toward the well at the center of town, shouting for anyone they passed to grab a bucket and help.  Brenhild nodded at her brother and then ran towards the house to the right of them.  Brienne was right on his heels as Tormund dashed to the house in front of them.  He pushed against the door and growled when it would not budge.  It was barred from the inside.  He turned to Brienne and gestured for her to stand beside him.

“On the count of three,” he explained.  “One.”  Brienne took a step back, bending her knees, and preparing to throw her weight against the door. “Two. Three.”  In perfect unison, they thrust themselves against the wood.  She felt a dull pain travel up her shoulder but cared little as the door buckled beneath their force.  They stumbled inside, smoke billowing towards them.  Brienne coughed, the smoke burning her throat and lungs. Tormund coughed as well, but pushed forward, covering his mouth with the sleeve on his arm.  Brienne did the same, pushing her tunic against her mouth as she struggled to follow Tormund as he disappeared into the haze of smoke.

Her eyes on his red hair, she trailed him up the stairs.  The smoke and heat intensified as they reached the second floor.  Tormund burst into one room and she took another, finding an elderly couple asleep on the bed in the small room.  The thud of her boots on the wooden floor woke them easily, their eyes jerking open in fright.  

“Your house is on fire,” she declared, trying to not let her voice sound panicked.  “You have to get out of here.”  They nodded slowly, confused, her words slowly sinking in. Brienne helped the old man, his beard streaked with white, to his feet.  He turned to help the woman stand and she left them, dashing back into the hall and nearly running into Tormund as he barreled out from another room.

“How many live here?” she demanded, her voice sounding raspy from the smoke she had inhaled.  She kept her arm over her face, ducking down from the thickest smoke gathering near the crackling rafters.  

Tormund frowned, “Six, I think.”  His voice was muffled by his sleeve, “They’re all up and moving.  They should be fine.  Let’s check on the next house.”  Brienne nodded.  She turned to see the older couple shuffling towards the stairs, being a helped by a boy no older than Toregg.  She followed after them, squeezing by, and taking the stairs down three at a time.  She could hear Tormund right behind her.

They burst out of the house and Brienne gulped big breaths of the cool night air.  It still reeked of smoke, but was much clearer than in the house. By now, the street was buzzing with free folk.  They had formed a chain of people from the well to the houses, passing buckets and pots and pails sloshing with water down the line.  When it reached the fire, the water was dumped on the various blazing houses.  

Then Munda and Toregg and several other free folk children grabbed the emptys and ran them back to the well to start the process over again. Several others shoveled fresh snow on the houses, trying to use the wet snow to stop the spread of the fire as well.  Everywhere, there were people stained with soot, coughing as they emerged from the fiery homes.  They were others to help them, to bring them water and help them recover.  As far as Brienne could see, there were no casualties.  She saw no crying faces, only grim frowns of determination.

Tormund had started towards the next home but was stopped when the family trailed out, coughing and wheezing.  “Are you alright?” Tormund asked them, receiving some nods and choked yeses.  Brenhild skidded over to him then, sweat glistening on her forehead.

“The houses are empty.  We got everyone out,” she grunted.  Tormund turned to look at his sister, rubbing his forehead and leaving a smudge of ash in the wake of his hand.  “Thank the Gods,” she murmured.

“I’ll thank them when the fires are out,” Tormund replied, dryly.  Brenhild shook her head at her brother, and then turned to help the family that had just emerged from the burning building.

Brienne stepped towards Tormund, saying, “We should join the line, help with the water.”  He agreed with a nod and they began to run that way. They came to an thundering halt, however, when the house closest to the well, that was so engulfed in the flames that the free folk hadn’t even tried to fight the fire, came crashing down upon itself.  Smoke poured outwards, wood splintered and fell as stone crumbled in fiery heaps. Everyone stopped to stare, a hush settling over the crowd.

“Fuck,” Tormund whispered, his hand finding hers as he moved to stand beside her.  She turned her head to look over him, and despite the devastation they were witnessing, a tiny smile pulled on his lips.  “You have some soot on your cheek,” he murmured as he reached up to rub it from her face. He paused, however, when his fingers touched her flushed skin.  Tormund withdrew his hand, looking down with a frown at his charcoal-blackened hand.

“Uh… I made it worse,” he said sheepishly.  Despite herself, Brienne felt the tiniest bubble of laughter building in her chest.

Their little moment was interrupted however, when a panicked looking woman ran up to Tormund.  “I can’t find him!  I can’t find my son!”  She gripped the furs on Tormund’s forearm, her voice growing shriller with each word.  Tormund dropped Brienne’s hand and gripped the frenzied woman’s shoulders, steadying her.

“Srenda, when did you last see him?”  Tormund asked, his voice calm and assertive.

“He- he went to bed.  Then Brenhild woke us up.  I got the little ones out of there.  I didn’t realize… I thought he would follow us.  He’s afraid of fire, Tormund!  He’s afraid and I left him there, I left him!”  Her voice broke with a sob and Tormund tugged her to his chest, her cries muffled against his furs.

“It’s that one,” Tormund told Brienne, nodding to one of the houses down the road.  Brienne turned, a gasp escaping her lips as she took in the sight.  Smoke and flames enveloped the house.  Over two dozen free folk were dumping water and snow on it with little success.  The roof looked in danger of collapsing at any second.

Tormund tugged Srenda’s head up to look in her eyes.  “Where is his room?  Where would he be?” he demanded.

Srenda took a moment to answer, her face swamped with tears.  “The second floor, the room at the front of the house… with the window.”  She looked shaky, like her legs might collapse at any second, another wave of sobs overtaking her.  Tormund held her firm, his brow furrowing.  

“I’m going,” Brienne declared and then turned and broke into a sprint before he could reply.  She dodged the numerous free folk fighting the fire and ran up to the door.

“What are you doing?” she heard someone shout.  She ignored it, and the smoke and flames licking at the roof and walls of the house as she rushed inside.  The smoke was smothering and she had to bend down, trying find breathable air nearer to the ground.  It was so hot too, sweat immediately dripping from her forehead and stinging her eyes.   Brienne was lucky the houses in Wintertown were all rather similar and she could find her way to the stairs without much struggle.  

The stairs, however, were unclimbable.  The bottom ones were fine, smoking slightly, but useable.  They led, however, into a burning inferno, flames dancing along the top steps and up the sides of the hallway, snaking along the roof.   Brienne peered up through the smoke as she heard the sound of wood creaking ominously above her.  Oh fuck.  This whole place was about to go down.  She turned to flee, only to have to jump back as a flaming piece of the wooden ceiling smashed to the floor in front of her.  Pain bloomed at her wrist as she realized her sleeve had caught fire. Growling, she stamped the flames down with her other hand and scurried towards the door, praying to the Seven she would make it.

She was crawling by the time she made it too the door, the heat from the ceiling catching fire becoming so intense she was forced to seek refuge near the floor.  She stumbled out of the door, gasping and coughing.

Tormund was there to catch her, pulling her upright, supporting her.  His hands found her cheeks, pulling her face up to meet his eyes.  “You’re a damn foolish woman,” he growled, before he pressed his lips to hers in a possessive kiss.  And for the briefest moment, she forgot the fire and the burning wound on her wrist and the stinging in her lungs.   He pulled his lips back from her and then tugged her towards him in a firm hug, looking relieved she was not seriously hurt.  

“I couldn’t… I couldn’t get upstairs,” she admitted in a small voice, her face in his neck, his musky scent comforting her.  Then she pulled back from him, an idea giving her a surge of energy.  “We need a ladder.”

“A ladder,” Tormund repeated, a hopeful look coming into his eyes.  “Yes!”  He let go of her and turned holler at the group of free folk around them. “Raurne is trapped in this house.  We need a ladder to rescue him!”

There was distressed silence, until a voice piped up from the back.  “Varrand was using a ladder yesterday to fix a hole in his roof.  He lives down the road, second house from the end.”  

Tormund took off running in that direction, shouting for Dryn to follow him.  Brienne tried to keep up, but she had to stop to cough, her lungs burning too much to run.  She bent over, clutching her arms to her chest, a terrible hacking coming over her.  She felt a hand soft on her back and raised her eyes to see Brenhild, holding out a mug of water, concern on her face.

“Take it easy,” she soothed, “You’ll be alright.”  Brienne was surprised by the act of kindness, but did not refuse it.  The cool water eased her burning throat, the ache in her lungs fading somewhat as her cough lessened. She slumped down on the stoop in front of Brenhild’s home.

“That was brave of you,” Brenhild declared, as she sat next to Brienne, “to run into a burning house to try to save a boy you’ve never even met.” She shrugged and then chuckled, just like her brother, “Brave… or very very stupid.”  Their eyes met and Brienne could see a hint of begrudging respect on Brenhild’s face.  Brienne shrugged too, feeling a sense of relief that Brenhild seemed to be warming up to her.

“I’m stupidly in love with your brother,” she admitted boldly, keeping her eyes on Brenhild’s face.  If she was shocked, she hid it well.  That was so unlike her brother.

Instead, Brenhild let out a slow breath.  “You’d have to be stupid to be in love with Tormund… I guess you’re perfect for each other then.”  And then they were laughing, the two of them, releasing the tension between them with every much-needed snicker.


	25. chapter twenty-five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pain hit him hard, right in the gut, knocking the breath from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how long it took me to post!! I thought I was going to finish this chapter much quicker than I did. But, I have a surprise for all you wonderfully patient readers! I am posting TWO chapters at the same time! Chapter 26 was finished before 25 so now both are ready!! Please forgive me for being slow!!
> 
> I owe Escribo86 a million thanks for motivating me get these chapters written.  
> Check out her new fic: [The Merger](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8079127/chapters/18512383)!

Tormund skidded to a halt beside the second to last house at the end of the muddy road, Dryn on his heels.   He spotted the rickety wooden ladder propped up against the side of the stone domicile and rushed towards it.  For a half a second, he was puzzled by where Brienne had disappeared to.  But he had no time to waste on such thoughts.  Wordlessly, he pointed for Dryn to grab the top of the ladder as Tormund pulled it from the wall and tilted it down and into his nephew’s hands.  It wasn’t heavy; but rather flimsy, and as they hightailed it back to the fire, Tormund wondered if it would even bear his weight.  It had to.  He wasn’t going to let Dryn, or Brienne, or anyone else risk their life in that fire, not when he could put himself in danger and spare them the peril.

Tormund’s sprint slowed somewhat when he came upon the sight of Brienne and Brenhild sitting side by side on the stoop of their home.  Both of them were smudged with ash, hands black, clothes burnt and their faces showing their fatigue.  But they were laughing, _together_.  The sight of them caused a warm feeling to spread over Tormund.  He hadn’t realized how much he had wanted them to get along until he saw them doing just that.  Their laughter ceased abruptly, however, when they turned their eyes to him.  Both looked sheepish to be caught expressing such mirth during a tragedy.  But Tormund did not hold it against them.  Sometimes you had to laugh in times like these.  It was either that or cry and at least laughter didn’t make it harder to see.  

Tormund turned his eyes back to his destination; the stone house that was spurting flames from nearly half the windows.  The window in the front bedroom, where Raurne would hopefully be, was leaking nothing but black smoke.  Nearly every person capable of lugging water or shoveling snow had turned their attention to attempting to stave back the flames on that one house, having abandoned the others.  They were going to save him. They _were._ Tormund shouted for a way through the crowd as they lugged the ladder closer.  With a grunt, Tormund and Dryn hoisted the ladder, directing the top to the shuttered window.  It was then that Brienne joined them.  Tormund’s hands were already clutching the wooden rungs, his feet poised to climb up, when her hand fell on his forearm.  

“Take this,” she demanded, shoving a torn piece of the sleeve of her tunic to him.  “Tie it around your mouth to keep out the smoke.”  Tormund nodded, seeing the worry in her eyes, as he hastily took the fabric and tugged it around his nose and mouth. He couldn’t think about her worry and his own for Raurne, lest he lose focus.  So he said nothing.

“Stay close to the floor,” she added, “and, gods willing, be fucking quick.”  Again, he didn’t reply, knowing not what to say.  He was already scrambling up the ladder.  It wobbled dangerously but he kept climbing, knowing Brienne and Dryn would brace the ladder as best as they could. He could feel the scorching heat radiating from the house the closer he climbed towards the inferno.

The shutters were latched from the inside and Tormund banged against them furiously with his clenched fist.  A stab of pain shot through his hand as he felt the wood splinter beneath his blows.  He shoved the shutters open and was met with a choking cloud of smoke and heat. Coughing, he thrust himself through the narrow window and nearly tumbled to the smoking floor.  It was so hot his skin felt instantly red and almost sunburnt. But he recovered quickly, focusing on the task at hand, his green eyes searching frantically for Raurne.  He took Brienne’s advice and stayed crouched near the floor.  He had too: the ceiling was smoking and partly ablaze.   He dashed to the bed, tearing through the blankets, and growling in frustration when he found it empty.  Where the fuck was the boy?  

The floor creaked ominously beneath his feet and Tormund had to purposefully tamp down the hint of fear that sparked in him.  Tormund’s lungs were beginning to sting, even with his mouth and nose covered.  He didn’t know how long he could last in the treacherous house.  

Tormund made his way through the haze to the door, noting with concern the smoking creeping underneath the bottom.  He placed a hand on the door and then pulled it back immediately.  The door was hot, scalding, causing his hand to scorch even though he only touched the wood for a second.  That meant on the other side of that door, there were flames.  Tormund couldn’t open the door.  It was too fucking dangerous.  If Raurne had attempted to flee the house that way, there was nothing Tormund could do for him now.  It was too late.

Tormund turned back to the window, furious curses on his tongue at the injustice of a boy only slightly older than Ursa being lost in the fire.  As he stepped past the bed, his boot kicked something soft.  Bending down and squinting through the smoke, Tormund realized it was a foot peeking out from underneath the bed.  Tormund flattened himself to the floor and felt a surge of hope as his eyes took in the sight of Raurne curled up in the fetal position, his face buried in his thin arms.  Tormund reached one arm beneath the bed, his fingers seizing the fabric of the boy’s tunic and pulling him from his hiding place.  Raurne was limp, his eyes closed.  Tormund cradled the boy to his chest and lifted the boy’s mouth to his ear, holding in his own breath, as he listened for the boy’s. Raurne was breathing, but just barely.  It was swallow, laboured. Tormund patted the boy’s cheek and he stirred, pulling his eyes open slowly.  

“It’s alright, Raurne.  You’re safe now,” Tormund murmured.  The boy nodded slowly, his face pale and his eyes glazed. But he was alive!  Maybe Brenhild was right.  Maybe the old Gods hadn’t abandoned them even though they moved below the wall.

“Tormund!” Brienne’s panicked voice called from outside, yanking him from his thoughts and spurring him on.  He held the boy against his chest and scrambled to the window.  It was a challenge to get back out the window and on the ladder without dropping the boy or losing his footing.  But he did so with haste, the pain in his lungs and burn on his face intensifying every second he remained in that house.  He half climbed, half slid down the ladder and was caught by the strong hands of Brienne and Dryn as they buffered his hectic descent.  He turned to face them and they both looked wide-eyed at the limp body in his arms.  

Tormund pulled the fabric from his mouth and bellowed, “He’s alive!”  A relieved cheer erupted in the crowd as Tormund, trailed by Brienne and Dryn, made their way through the sea of people.  Srenda and Brenhild met them halfway.  Srenda swooped Raurne into her arms, her tears now of joy as she held him to her breast, saying his name over and over as she plastered his forehead with kisses.   Brenhild led them away, toward her home, and Tormund hoped that Brenhild’s healing skills would be enough to restore the boy.  He had only been in that house for minutes, but he felt dizzy and sick from the smoke and heat.  He could not imagine how awful Raurne was feeling.  Tormund sucked in a breath, trying to clear his aching head.

“Are you alright?” Brienne asked quietly, her hand finding his and squeezing softly.  Tormund turned to her, their eyes meeting, as he nodded.  

“I’m fine,” he lied.  She frowned at him and he could tell she was seeing right through his bravado.  Brienne tugged him toward the edge of the crowd, her hand firm on his.

“You need to sit.  You need rest.  Let me get you some water.”  She was not asking; she was telling him.  

“Brienne,” he said, his voice insistent as he pulled gently back against her hand.  She turned to look back at him as he muttered, “I’m fine, really. We need to help put the fires out.  I’ll rest when my people rest.”   Brienne paused, clearly wanting to argue.  They stared at each other and Tormund hoped she understood.  He didn’t have the energy right now to fight her and the fires.  After a moment, she nodded and released his hand.

“Let’s go,” she declared, and the two of them turned and quickly joined in the efforts to the put out the fires.  Tormund had no idea how long they worked; lugging buckets of water, shoveling snow, stamping out flames.  He knew nothing but the ache in his back, the soreness of his hands, the sweat on his forehead.  And the strength he felt with Brienne beside him, never tiring, never complaining.  Tormund could see how she diligently earned the respect of the Free Folk as the hours wore on.  He was proud that she was his.

By the time the sun was rising, sending a warm yellowish light over Wintertown, they had stamped out the remaining flames.  One house had collapsed, two were nothing but crumbling, charred, stone skeletons, and the remaining three were salvageable.  It would take work to repair them, but it was possible.  Cheers broke out again in celebration, though they were not enthusiastic, but the wearied cries of a happy but exhausted people.

Tormund and Brienne followed the others back to their home, trudging slowly, their arms wrapped around each other's waists. He wasn’t sure if he was holding up Brienne or she was holding him up, but somehow they made it there.  Dryn, Munda, and the rest had already disappeared inside. Tormund was imagining drinking a mug of mead and then collapsing back into his furs, Brienne in his arms.  Sure they were filthy, covered in dirt and soot, but a bath could wait.  At least until they slept for another 6, 8, maybe 10 hours?   Tormund chuckled and Brienne cocked her head at him, smiling at him even though she had no idea why he was laughing.  It didn’t matter.   Everything was alright.

Except it wasn’t.  Brenhild met them at the door, her face grave as she stepped out of the house and closed the door behind her.  Tormund was instantly on edge.

“What is it?” he demanded.  He felt Brienne’s arm tighten around him.  Brenhild took a breath, her hands twisting over themselves.

“It’s Raurne,” she whispered, her eyes shining with unshed tears.  “I couldn’t help him.  He stopped responding. His breathing weakened...”

“Brenhild,” Tormund growled, not wanting her say it.

“He’s dead,” she whispered.  The pain hit him hard, right in the gut, knocking the breath from him.  Tormund closed his eyes, his head hanging down.  He pulled in a shaky breath through his nose, the burning in his lungs growing, as he fought to control himself.  It wasn’t fucking fair. Raurne was just a boy.  Hadn’t his people lost enough already?  He was just a boy.  

Tormund turned from them, wrenching himself from Brienne’s arms, as he stomped away.  Tormund curled his hands into fists, shaking with rage and anguish.  How had the fires started?  Who had fucking done this?  He paced down the road, ignoring the tears that stung in his eyes. Brienne ran after him, catching up with him in seconds.  He kept his back to her, afraid if he saw her big blue eyes filled with compassion he would completely lose himself.  

“Tormund,” she said softly and he felt her gentle hand on his shoulder.   He shrugged her away.  He didn’t want her kindness right now.  He wanted to scream, he wanted to rage.  He wanted to stay angry.  It was easier that way.  He heard the crunch of her boots following behind him and he was tempted to turn around and shout at her to leave him be.  She didn’t understand.  She couldn't possibly understand what he was feeling right now. And he currently didn’t possess the fortitude to help her understand.

He didn’t get the chance, however, for in the next moment, Morrik and Yora were running up to him.  Their young faces were flushed and there was violence in their eyes.  Yora spoke first, her voice twinged with excitement.

“We caught one of them!” she blurted. Tormund eyes darted to the girl, his brow furrowing at what he was hearing.  Was it true?  It seemed too good to be true.

Morrik’s words tumbled over hers, “He had torches and a bag filled with rags soaked in oil.”

“There were others too, but we couldn’t bring ‘em down by ourselves,”  Yora continued with a shrug of her narrow shoulders.  “Fucking kneelers.”

Morrik continued, “We didn’t know what to do with him… So we tied him up to the hitching post behind Raukmar’s house until the fires were out. Until we could find you.”

Tormund raised a hand and the two felt silent, though they were nearly shaking with eagerness.  They wanted vengeance.  And so did he.  He wanted nothing more in that moment but to sink his sword slowly in the gut of the man that had tried to burn them as they slept.

“Bring him to the town square,” Tormund roared, his voice sounding almost inhuman in his primal need to exact vengeance on the child-murdering cunt.  Morrik and Yora’s eyes grew wide, but they nodded obediently.  “Gather the others.  I’m going to get my sword.  And then we’re going to teach the kneelers what happens when they fuck with the Free Folk.”

Morrik and Yora scurried off to do what he demanded, wicked smiles on their faces, and Tormund turned to march towards his sword.  He brushed past Brienne, completely ignoring the stunned look on her face.


	26. chapter twenty-six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was too fucking strong. She had to get him off her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY! Another chapter!!!! Hope you love it! Things get crazy. Like legit bonkers. :P  
> Let me know what you think! I want all your thoughts!!
> 
> Oh and Escribo86 is super awesome and a great editor and even better writer!  
> Check out her new fic: [The Merger](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8079127/chapters/18512383)!

Brienne followed after him, her long legs allowing her to keep pace with Tormund as he stalked toward his home, toward his sword.  She waited until they had passed behind the smoldering remains of one of the burnt homes, until they were out of the sight of the group of free folk that were quickly gathering to watch the impending execution.  

“Tormund, wait!” she insisted.  He paused, turning his head to stare back at her, seeming to have forgotten she was even there.  There was bloodlust in his eyes.

“What?” he growled, instantly impatient.  Brienne strode forward, moving to stand in front of him, between him and his destination.

"You can’t hurt that man.”  Her voice was steady, determined, confident in her knowledge that she was right and he was wrong.

Tormund snorted.  “Like hell I can’t.  He’s gonna pay for what he did.”

“Yes, he will.  But _how_ is not for you to decide.”  Tormund narrowed his eyes at her, the smudge of ash on his forehead making him look unusually menacing.  She saw him grit his teeth.

“Of course it’s my fucking decision.  He hurt my people.  He is going to die.  And I’m going to kill him.”  He shifted his weight and began to step around her.  Brienne quickly moved in front of him, stopping him in his tracks.  She could see the anger flare in his eyes but Brienne stood her ground, her pulse beginning to pound as they stared each other down. She knew he was hurting, nearly out of his mind with grief.  All the more reason she had to talk some sense into him.

“Tormund, he disobeyed a royal decree,” she said adamantly. “The law demands he must be brought before the King."  Tormund just scowled at her.  She continued on, trying to hide how dismayed she was feeling over his growing anger at her, “If you hurt him, _you_ will be breaking the law.” She was only trying to do what was right, and protect Tormund at the same time.

But he was having none of it.  

“Fuck the law!” he snarled, brushing past her.  Brienne sucked in a quick breath, feeling a spark of panic in her stomach.  She reached out and seized his wrist in her hand, gripping him tightly, roughly, and preventing him from walking away with a wrenching yank.  He turned slowly, his eyes wide as he stared down at her fingers wrapped decisively around his wrist.  She would not budge and she could see the realization of that dawn on him as he slowly turned his head up to meet her eyes.  Emotion sparked in his eyes like a flash of lightning.  Brienne felt as though she could hardly breathe staring back at him.

His voice was quiet, but seething, when he spoke.  It made her blood run cold.  “You would stop me… you would fight me… to protect _that_ man?”

Fight him?  Oh gods!  She hoped it wouldn’t come to that.  But she couldn’t let him see her falter.  She held his eyes, unflinching.  “I would… to uphold the law.”

He frowned deeply, his eyes dropping from hers.  She could see him take a deep breath.  Brienne prayed he was trying to calm himself and coming to understand that she was right.  The free folk were below the wall now, living on borrowed land, under the King’s rule.  They had to obey the law. It was the only way.  Brienne loosened her hold on his wrist, her fingers rubbing softly against his skin, hoping to sooth the pain she had undoubtedly caused when she had grabbed him so harshly.

It was all he needed.  With her grip relaxed, he pulled his hand from hers and wrapped it around her wrist.  In one swift motion, he twisted her arm behind her back and pushed her against the charred stone of the still-smoldering home beside them.  Brienne was shocked by his betrayal and let out a low grunt as her chest made contact with the unyielding surface. The stone was warm against her skin as he pressed his body to her back, pinning her there. He was firm, but did not cause her pain, save for the dull throb in her arm curled behind her back.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered gruffly, his lips brushing against her ear.  “But I won’t let you stop me.”  His voice made a hot shiver travel down her spine.  Despite herself, the feel of his body against hers, holding her there, nearly helpless, made an aching heat spark in her lower belly. What was wrong with her?

But Brienne didn’t stay helpless, or distracted, for long.  She was far more stubborn than he, or at least she had convinced herself she was.  And she was utterly determined to stop him.  She struggled against him, pushing against the stone with her free hand.  He tried to hold her still but could not do so without hurting her.  And it was obvious to Brienne that he truly did not want to cause her pain.  She had slightly lesser scruples.  A little pain now would save him greater pain in the end, she assured herself.  Once she had created enough of a space between her and the wall, she lifted her leg forward and then swung it back, her foot making contact with his knee.

He let out a snarl and released her, stumbling back.  It had been a dirty move, undoubtedly, but it had accomplished her purpose.  She whirled around to face him, trying to ignore the look of pain on his face and the resulting stab of guilt she felt.

“I _am_ going to stop you,” she stated bluntly.  “I’m going to follow the law and take that man to Winterfell to stand before Jon.”  Tormund glared at her, his nostrils flaring, and she glared back, her chest heaving with every harried breath.  “I don’t want to hurt you either…”  Brienne swallowed hard, her eyes falling from his for a moment, before she forced herself to meet his blazing green eyes again. “...but I’ll do what I must.”

She meant her words.  And so did he, apparently, for in the next breath, he was darting towards her, his hands clenched in fists.  Instinct took over and Brienne dodged away from him, rolling to the right and jumping back.   She ducked inside the doorway of the crumbling building, deftly stepping over the charred door that had fallen from its hinges.  The smell of smoke and burnt wood was overwhelming, but she barely registered the acrid scent.  She could not believe this was really happening.  They were going to brawl.  It was terrifying and also somehow titillating, her heart pounding in twisted excitement.  Seriously, what the fuck was wrong with her?

He swiftly stalked after her, his eyes trained on her, as he followed Brienne into the smoldering house.  Her pulse was thundering in her ears as she turned to face him, bringing her hands up in a defensive stance.

Tormund’s advance slowed as he reached about three paces from her, his posture matching hers.  They were both light on their feet, ready to spring at the slightest provocation, adrenaline causing them to forget their fatigue.  Brienne’s eyes darted to his hands, his feet, and back to his face, watching keenly for the tense of muscles, for the motion that would give away his first move.  When he didn’t immediately strike, Brienne went on the offense, rushing towards him. Her right fist hurtled towards his face and he snapped his head back, dodging her blow.  She swung with her left fist, only as a distraction and when he dodged that blow, her right leg was already careening to hit his side.  He turned to block with his own leg, but was too late.  She felt her knee sink into his flesh with a satisfying thud.

Tormund, in reflex, curled over on his injured side.  She had the perfect shot to jab him the back of the neck with her elbow.  He would fall and the fight would be over.  She raised her arm to do just that, and was utterly surprised when his forearm sprang up to meet hers, stopping her. He was still bent over and so it was easy for him to rush forward, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her from the ground.  She growled as he slammed her down on the burnt remains of the kitchen table, pain rippling down her back.  She leaned back, bringing her feet up, and kicked him squarely in the chest.  He grunted in agony as he reeled back, baring his teeth at her.  She pulled herself from the table quickly, but not quick enough.  He was on her in a second, before she even was able to stand up fully.  He grabbed the tunic at her shoulder and yanked her forward, off balance, as his fist made contact with her side.  The wind was knocked from her and she gasped, the pain intense.  He was too fucking strong.  She had to get him off her.  

Her foot came down on his, just as she smashed the side of her hand into his throat.  His hand released her tunic and he turned from her, coughing and sputtering.  Brienne seized the moment to leap on his back, her arms curling around his neck in a choke hold.  He growled like a rabid dog, reaching his hands up to yank painfully at her arms.  He turned and threw his weight back against the charred stone, smashing Brienne against the wall.  She let out a cry, but held firm.  He did it again, the pain screaming through her chest and causing her arms to loosen around his neck just the smallest amount.  But it was enough for him to take in a ragged breath even as he fell to his knees.  Tormund reached back, his fingers digging into her sides as he seized her tunic again in his fists. He used every ounce of strength he had to yank her forward and over his shoulder, smashing her to the floor in front of him and causing a cloud of gray ash to burst into the air.  He moved swiftly to straddle her hips, using his superior weight to hold her to the ground.

Brienne’s eyes grew wide as she realized she was trapped beneath him.  She bucked her hips and clawed at his chest, even as he seized her wrists and slammed them to the floor.  The ash swirled around them, blanketing them in a haze. He leaned over her, panting and red faced, his eyes fiery and wild.

And then he was kissing her.

His lips were hard and crushing.  Even as she felt her body responding to his kiss, a moan catching in her throat, she would not stop fighting him. He would not win this way.  Frantic, she bit down hard on his lip, not relenting until the copper taste of his blood reached her tongue.  He roared against her and then pulled himself away, shock in his eyes as red dripped from his lips.

She grinned wickedly up at him, hoping his blood had stained her mouth and she looked a fright.  She certainly felt frightful.  She was out of control, like a rabid bitch in heat.  She wanted to win this fight.  And, seven hells, she also wanted to say fuck it all and pull him back down on her until he drove every single thought from her mind with his rough kisses.

By now, her feet had found grip on the floor, and with a heaving effort she thrust her hips up and to the side.  It shifted his weight just enough to throw him off balance and he let go of her wrists to steady himself.  She was ready, shoving her hands to his chest as she strained her legs against the floor to push him off of her.  He tumbled to the left and Brienne scrambled to gain the upper hand.  She roughly pushed him to the floor and, this time, it was her that climbed on top of him, squeezing him between her muscular legs.

Brienne gasped as she felt the thick stab of his cock against her inner thigh.  He stalled, not trying to fight her anymore. Tormund just stared up at her, panting, his hands sliding tentatively up her legs to grip her hips.  The fight had turned him on, she realized, somewhat astounded.  Until she conceded, reluctantly, that she had felt it too: the primal, animalistic lust between them.  She was grateful the dampness in her small clothes was not nearly as obvious as his arousal.

Brienne glared down at Tormund, even as she found herself moving her hips against him, rubbing herself on his hard cock.  He groaned, the look in his eyes growing more desperate, more delirious.  Maybe… maybe she could win this way.  Brienne leaned forward, her lips meeting his again and tasting blood, as she raised her hips from him just enough to sneak her hand between their sweaty bodies.  She slid her hand into his trousers and wrapped her fingers firmly around his throbbing cock.  His lips faltered against hers as she steadily stroked him.

“Brienne,” he moaned brazenly, as his hands found their way beneath her tunic to cup her breasts and roughly squeeze her nipples between his fingers.  It hurt somewhat but she found herself moaning as the pain mixed with the pleasure in the most tantalizing way.  Her whole body was bruised and aching already.  What was a little more?

Indeed, pain was something Brienne could handle.  Her hand caressed up and down Tormund’s thick cock as she considered why she was so frightened by the thought of him inside of her.  Surely the first time could not hurt worse than the sting of a sword or the beat of a fist.

And she was tired of waiting, of yearning for it, of his promises of how perfect he would make it for her.  Fuck perfect.  She wanted it now.  She wanted to destroy the Maid of Tarth once and for all.  She wanted to crush the countless memories of feeling ugly, hideous, and undesirable. She wanted to silence all the voices throughout her life that had told her she was not what she was supposed to be.  She needed to feel Tormund inside of her.  She needed to drown in his boundless desire for her and to believe that she was truly worthy of his love.

And, honestly, she still really wanted to win this fight, or whatever it was now...  

Brienne let go of his cock and rolled off of him.  Tormund let out a dejected groan at her absence.  Brienne used her bruised hands to hastily push her pants and small clothes down and then kicked her boots off.  In a heartbeat, she was straddling him again, rubbing her hot, wet center against the bulge in his pants.  Tormund stared up at her, his emerald eyes growing wide.

“What- what are you doing?” he asked, his voice heavy with lust and disbelief, even as his hands sought to rub her naked thighs, giving away his need for her.


	27. chapter twenty-seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Maid of Tarth was no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The slow burn is over...  
> It's finally the chapter you have all been waiting for...  
> I really FUCKING hope you like it!!!! :P
> 
> As always, a huge thanks to Escribo86!! Check out her fic: [The Merger](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8079127/chapters/18512383)!

“You know what I’m doing,” Brienne growled down at him, her voice husky with her growing passion.  She reached a hand between her legs and underneath his pants to wrap her fingers around him again.  She tugged him from the constraints of his trousers, his cock springing free as she used her other hand to push his pants lower.  He was breathing heavy, his face twisted with wanton desire.  Brienne raised her hips higher, guiding him to her.  Tormund moaned as she rubbed his thick head against her slick entrance, his fingers gripping tighter on her hips.  She was dripping wet for him and so it was easy to lower herself slowly onto him.

Brienne bit her bottom lip, reminding herself to relax, as she took him inside of her inch by sublime inch.  Tormund hissed between clenched teeth, his fingers digging painfully into her hip bones, clearly being driven mad by her agonizingly slow pace. She didn’t care and glared threateningly down at him as she continued to gently lower herself onto him.  He stilled, his grip loosening, even though his contorted face revealed he was barely keeping it together.

Then she was sitting on his hips, her hands on his stomach, having taken the full length of him inside of her.  She had expected searing pain but there was none, just a dull pang that faded easily.  Instead, she was overwhelmed by the most glorious feeling of him filling her, stretching her, completing her.  Her mouth fell open, her chest heaving, her wild eyes meeting his.

He took it as her permission to move and bucked his hips up into her, his hands holding her hips to him in a vice grip.  But she was not ready for him to move yet.   Brienne roared angrily at him, feeling a hint of uneasiness twisting inside of her.  She yanked his hands off of her and shoved them to the floor on either side of his head.  Brienne leaned over him, pinning him to the ground, not letting him have the friction he was so desperately seeking.   

“No!” she snarled.  She needed to be in control, lest her fears overwhelm her.   Her face was inches from his and she could feel the little puffs of hot air from his haggard breaths.  He stared up at her, his eyes big and round and frenzied.  Brienne held his gaze as she tilted her hips forward and, in an hesitant pace, slid herself up the length of his cock and then gradually back down him.  Oh fuck, it felt good.  It felt better than she had ever imagined, the pleasure spreading like warm honey over her entire body.  She did it again, just as slowly, squeezing herself around him. Tormund whimpered, agony and bliss twisting in his eyes.

Brienne leaned closer, eliminating the space between them as she kissed him intensely, grateful for his reluctant patience.  His mouth was eager, his lips parting for her.  Then she let go of his wrists and sat up, resting her hands on his solid chest for balance.  She had adjusted to the delicious pressure of his cock inside of her and began to move, rocking her hips against him, slowly finding a rhythm that made waves of pleasure ripple over her body.  He was hitting that glorious spot inside of her that made her whole body hum with ecstasy, the very same spot that Tormund had tormented her with his fingers hours before.  She could barely breath.

Tormund looked entirely overcome as she began to grind against him, a husky growl bursting from his mouth. She gazed down at him, their eyes locking into each other’s.  Tormund’s hands snaked back up to her body, one hand grasping her breast and the other sliding down her stomach until his thumb dipped between her slippery folds and found her swollen clit.  Brienne cried out, arching her back as her hands curled into fists in the furs at his chest.  The feeling of his cock sliding in and out of her combined with his thumb circling her bundle of nerves left her aching, overwhelmed, and stark raving mad.

She mewled his name between shaky gasps, squeezing her eyes shut.  She was surprised when suddenly Tormund was kissing her, his warm tongue slipping between her parted lips.  He had sat up, his arms wrapping snug around her waist, holding her to him.  She opened her eyes to meet his, their faces inches from each others, as she pulled back from the kiss to pull in a quivering breath.  He touched his forehead to hers as she curled her arms around his shoulders.

“You feel so fucking good,” Tormund moaned, his hands sliding down her back to grab her ass as he rocked her hips into the thrust of his own. Brienne could not seem to form any words in reply.  But her moan joined his as she met each grind of his hips with the push of her own.  She breathed out and he breathed her in, their bodies syncing perfectly in rolling waves of passion.  She was overwhelmed with new sensations: the fabric of her tunic rubbing on her hard nipples as her chest slid against his, the feel of his strong hands on her ass, holding her, guiding her, squeezing her, the way her engorged clit rubbed against him and his cock seeming to push deeper inside her with every thrust.  Oh fuck.  She was going to come.

“Tormund.  Tormund!” she shrieked, as the trembling pleasure continued to build in her, careening her towards the breaking point.  His hands grew tighter on her ass, bruising her flesh as he jerked her against him.  She threw her head back, digging her fingers into his shoulders as her body began to shake frantically.  He pressed his lips to the pounding pulse in her neck.  And then his teeth sunk into her feverish skin, biting down, sending a spark of sharp pain shooting through her body.

Instantly, she was plunging into a backbreaking orgasm. She was melting and exploding at the same time.  Her head was spinning, dots dancing before her eyes.  Her whole body was pulsating, tingling, erupting with feverous euphoria.  Tormund crushed her to him, his strong arms holding her steady, as she writhed on top of him.  It was too much: a tidal wave of pleasure.  She lost herself, feeling weightless and unreal.  She was floating away on a cloud of ecstasy.  Brienne slumped against Tormund, her head against his shoulder, her muscles slack and weak, her breathing irregular.  

But this time, he didn’t wait for her to recover.  Tormund pulled her from him with a gruff roar and heaved her on to her back.  Brienne gasped as he wrenched her hips up and drove himself deep inside her. She was still so sensitive from her orgasm and she cried out, his cock sending shock waves of such intense pleasure through her body that it hurt.  But he did not relent, thrusting into her with wild abandon. He roughly pushed her tunic up, his mouth and hands attacking her breasts as his frenzied pace only increased.

She was at his mercy and, at first, could do nothing but tremble beneath his furious onslaught.  That faded quickly, however, as her own fervor began to spark and burn again, making her bolder.  Brienne reached up to claw at his back as she wrapped her thick legs around his hips.  She needed him closer, harder, deeper.  Tormund let out a strangled sound, releasing her nipple from his mouth as he buried his face in her neck. She pushed herself up to him as he rammed himself down into her.

“Oh fuck! Brienne!” he choked in her ear, sounding as though he was on the brink of completely losing himself.  He pulled back, his hands tugging frantically at her thighs locked around him.  Brienne was confused.  Why was he suddenly trying to get away from her?  She did not lessen her iron grip on him, arching her back and driving herself into him instead.  She did not want him to stop.  He felt too good thrusting into her.  She could feel another orgasm building steadily within her.

“Brienne please!” he begged, “I’m going to-”  He couldn’t finish the sentence as a desperate growl overwhelmed him.  His face twisted with tormented bliss, his hands seizing her hips and holding on for dear life as he bucked erratically into her.  She felt an explosion of hot, thick liquid inside of her and then Tormund collapsing on top of her.  He was panting, shaking, his weight pressing into her.  She rather liked it, the feel of him heavy and utterly drained on top of her, his head resting on her chest.  She reached up to brush the red curls from his sweaty forehead, a contented smile coming to her lips.  Brienne felt him go soft and slide from her, a trickle of his warm seed following after.  

They lay like that for a long moment, holding each other as the smoky puffs of ash settled around them.  Brienne instantly missed the feeling of his warm weight on her when Tormund pulled himself stiffly from her.   He rolled to the side, tucking himself back into his pants, and propping himself up on his elbow so he could meet her eyes.  He looked down at her, shame marring his ruddy face.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his eyebrows pulling together in concern.

Why was he apologizing?  It had seemed pretty fucking incredible to her.  Brienne shook her head at him, her voice stern, as she replied,  “Don’t apologize for giving me exactly what I wanted.”

“I was too rough.  I lost control,” he muttered, a frown coming to his lips.  “I shouldn’t have... _finished_ inside of you.”  He hung his head, lowering his eyes.  He had been rough, that was true.  But so had she.  And why did matter if he had finished inside of her?  Oh, of course!  It suddenly clicked in her head and Brienne felt foolish for being so dense.  He was worried she would become pregnant.

“Tormund, it’s alright,” she said softly, reaching her hands up to cup his face and tug his lips down on hers.

“Really?” he asked when their lips parted, looking awestruck.  Brienne laughed.

“Yes. Sansa gave me moon tea.  I’ll be fine.”

“Oh,” Tormund replied, a hint of disappointment flickering in his eyes.  She did not understand.  Before she could give it much thought, however, he pushed his lips to hers, kissing her deeply, earnestly, lovingly and she forgot everything but the feel of his mouth on hers.  When he pulled back, there was a naughty playfulness in his eyes.

“You were close again, weren’t you?” he asked, smirking down at her.  Brienne nodded, a fresh heat rising to her cheeks as she looked away bashfully.  

“How can you blush after all that?” he teased as his hand slid slowly over her breasts and stomach, but paused before reaching the sopping wet juncture of her thighs.  Brienne shivered, her body still buzzing from what had almost been, what she had been so close to for the second time. His green eyes flashed as he declared in his deep voice, “I’m gonna make you come again.”  

Oh hell yes.  She wanted that.  More than she cared to admit.  And any other time, she would have let him have it.  But they had been distracted long enough as it was.  There were more important things to think about right now.  He slid his hand lower but Brienne caught his wrist before he touched the spot that would cause her to lose all rational thought.

“Tormund,” she said, a seriousness creeping into her voice.  “We have to talk about what we’re going to do with that man.”

The playfulness disappeared from his eyes the second the words left her mouth.  He sat up, rubbing his hands over his face as he grunted in frustration.  Brienne sat up too, her bruised backside causing her to wince.  She fumbled to reach for her scattered small clothes, suddenly feeling uneasy being naked from the waist down in the drafty, burnt house.  She was no longer crazy with frantic lust and her inhibitions were quickly returning.

Tormund immediately began to help, retrieving her boots and pants for her.  Brienne stood clumsily, her body feeling stiff and sore from hours of hauling water, then fighting, then fucking.  She dressed silently, pulling up her small clothes.  She said nothing as Tormund held out her pants so she could step into them and then used his deft fingers to quickly fasten her boots as she rested her hands on his shoulders. Normally, Brienne would have felt peeved by someone helping her to dress as though she was a child, but in the moment, she was nothing but grateful. She was too sore and too tired to notice anything but his sweet desire to care for her. He stood slowly too, Brienne lending him a hand and a grimace appearing on his lips as he climbed to his feet. They were quite the pair: bruised, beaten, blackened with soot.

At least they were no longer angry with each other.   As soon as Tormund stood, he circled her in his strong arms, pulling her tightly against him. Brienne rested her tired head on his shoulder and breathed out slowly.

“Please Tormund.  Let me take him to Winterfell,” Brienne murmured, her arms snug around his chest.

“Raurne is dead,” Tormund muttered through gritted teeth.  Brienne pulled back from him to meet his weary eyes.  She reached up to cradle his face in her hands and he sighed ruefully.

“You did everything you could to save him,” she insisted.  “Vengeance won’t make it hurt any less.  It won’t make it make sense.”  Brienne was speaking from experience.  Killing Stannis had not been as satisfying as she had hoped.  Thinking of Renly still made her chest ache with grief. Tormund had no response, only the sad frown deepening on his face.  “Jon will see to it that justice is done.  Did you not swear to follow him?”

He scowled, “I pledged to follow Jon the man, not Jon the King.”

“How long do you think your people with last below the wall if they don’t follow the law?” Brienne grumbled, feeling her patience slipping. “They look to you to lead them, Tormund.  And if you don’t obey the King, neither will they.”  She searched his eyes.  Surely there must be some end to his stubbornness.  Surely he would listen to reason.

“Damn you, woman,” he growled, though his drained voice revealed his defeat.  He pulled her closer, pressing his lips to her neck.  “You don’t fight fair,” he mumbled, his mouth continuing to brush against her skin.  Brienne closed her eyes, feeling a deep sense of relief that he had finally relented.  And a deep sense of satisfaction that the Maid of Tarth was no more.


	28. chapter twenty-eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She needed to see him. _Now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello wonderful readers! Thank you for all the amazing comments on the last couple of chapters! I makes me so happy to know you all are so invested in this!!! I love you all!!! 
> 
> You MUST check out this [AMAZING ART](http://elenatria.tumblr.com/post/151017674613/illustration-for-slick-as-a-baby-seal-by-the) made by Elentria (elenatria.tumblr.com)!! It is her illustration of chapter 13. I'm not sure if you all remember that part, but it's when Tormund goes down on Brienne. And her painting is fucking hot!!!! *whew* Tell me what you think in the comments! She might make more incredible Brienne/Tormund art if we all tell her how much we love her awesome work!!! If you don't click, your whole day will be ruined. Seriously. And [CLICK HERE](http://elenatria.deviantart.com/) to see all her stuff on deviantart! 
> 
> As always, a huge thanks to Escribo86 for editing help!! Check out her fic: [The Merger](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8079127/chapters/18512383)!

Brienne eased herself onto the wooden stool by the crackling fire, frowning at the sharp soreness that shot up her backside.   She wondered if all former maidens felt this much pain or only stupid ones like her that got aroused during brawls and just fucking went for it.  She breathed out slowly, trying to relax the strained muscles in her body.  But Brienne didn’t regret it, not even a tiny bit.  Just the memory of Tormund growling wildly as he thrust himself into her made a devious secret smile come to her lips.  She hoped their brief time apart wouldn’t drive her mad with yearning.  At least it would give her some time to heal, she reminded herself, trying to force herself to find the bright side.

Brienne yawned, staring at the kettle and willing the water to boil faster.  All she had to do was drink her moon tea, check in with Sansa, and then there was nothing separating her from her glorious feather bed for the next several hours.  She was thankful to be back at Winterfell.

After Tormund had finally accepted that she was right, he had returned to the town square to convince the free folk of the same.  She had not accompanied him.  Tormund thought it best if he faced them himself, fearing they would blame her for his change of heart and it would undo all the good will she had earned by helping them put out the fire.  Brienne readily agreed, returning to his home without protest.

Brenhild was there, waiting, a knowing smile pulling on her lips as she took in Brienne’s disheveled appearance.   There was no way she actually knew what her and Tormund had been doing, Brienne assured herself, but it didn’t stop the blazing blush from staining her cheeks.  Brenhild was kind and said nothing.  She fetched Brienne some water to wash the soot from her face and hands  and then fed her a hearty breakfast.

Brienne was nearly falling asleep in a chair by the hearth when Tormund returned, dragging the man roughly behind him from the rope bound around his wrists.  Brienne recognized him.  He was one of the men she had told off the day before, that had been drunkenly harassing the two free folk boys.  Brienne felt her stomach sinking with guilt.  If she hadn’t pushed them, hadn’t tried to so thoroughly humiliate them, maybe they would not have retaliated so aggressively.  

Tormund seemed to sense her thoughts, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder and shaking his head.  “Don’t blame yourself,” he urged.  “I saw his supplies.  They’d been planning this for days.”  Brienne was relieved, and then overcome with guilt at her selfish relief.  But there was no time to wallow; there were things that had to be done.

Brienne tugged on her gambeson and then Tormund helped to strap on her armor, her shoulders too stiff from hauling water for hours to fasten it herself.  His hands were so gentle on her and Brienne found herself wishing desperately they did not have to part again.  But Tormund explained he had to stay, at least for a few days.   They were going to burn Raurne’s body and then, most likely, move out of Wintertown and back to the free folk camp an hours ride away.  The free folk did not feel safe here; they did not trust that more violence wouldn’t follow. Brienne didn’t blame them, but she loathed the idea of Tormund and his family being even farther away from Winterfell.

He walked with her to the edge of town, their prisoner shuffling behind them.  She buried her fists in the furs on Tormund’s chest and tried to suppress the stinging at the back of her eyes.   She was being completely irrational and she hated herself for it. They would only be separated for a few measly days.  Then why did it feel like her heart was going to break in half?  He chuckled at the exaggerated melancholy on her face, though the laughter did not reach his eyes.  Tormund enveloped her in a fierce hug, gruffly whispering in her ear that he would count the seconds until she was in his arms again.  He kissed her deeply and then abruptly turned and stomped away.  He didn’t look back and she was grateful, not wanting to shed tears in front of her prisoner.

They made their way back Winterfell slowly, the rope firm in her grasp as the prisoner trudged behind her.  She was vaguely reminded of how she had met Jaime, though he had done nothing but talk non-stop, hurling insults at her nearly their entire journey.  This man was silent, resigned to his doomed fate, his head hanging down.  

At the castle gate, she passed him off to one of the guards, explaining his crimes and his need to be chained up until the King could decide his fate.  She was thankful when the guards dragged him off to the dungeon, sparing Brienne the effort of having to do it herself.  

Brienne was surprised the courtyard was empty, no sign of Pod or Sansa or anyone else she knew for that matter.  It was still early, but the quietness felt eerie.  Her immediate destination was her quarters to fetch the moon tea and shed her armor.  She asked the first servant girl she passed on her way to help her remove her armor, not wanting to waste the time to find Pod.   It was agonizingly slow to explain to the girl how to do it, but eventually she had pulled the last heavy piece of metal from Brienne’s bruised body.  She left on her gambeson and kept Oathkeeper on the belt at her hip.  Brienne sent the girl away with a request for a fire to be built in her room.  Not wanting to wait for however long that would take, Brienne made her way to Winterfell’s kitchen to boil her tea.  Again, she was surprised she did not run into anyone she wanted to see, like King Jon, or even those she did not want to see, like Littlefinger.  Where was everyone?

The cook was surprised when she entered the kitchen, quickly offering to send hot water for tea to her room when Brienne explained why she was there.  She declined, sitting herself beside the fire to wait, the bag of moon tea hidden in her sleeve.  Brienne honestly didn’t know if she could climb the steps to her quarters right away again.  She was so worn out, mind and body, from all that had transpired over the last several hours.  And so there she sat, waiting for the water in the kettle to boil, lost in a bittersweet daydream of Tormund.  

It was only when the cook  came rushing over to pull the boiling kettle from the fire that Brienne was jolted back to the present.  She had not noticed the steam or hissing sound of the water boiling and was instantly embarrassed by her carelessness.  The cook gave her a miffed look, setting the kettle on the long wooden table that ran the length of the kitchen.  He brought her a mug and seemed somewhat interested in why Brienne was so eager for her tea, pausing to watch her.  Brienne stared back at him, unmoving and unwilling to offer an explanation.  Eventually, he let her be and returned to chopping vegetables for some recipe or other.   She turned her back on him and placed a fair amount of the pungent tea leaves in the mug.  After she filled the mug to the brim with boiling water, she sat back down on the stool to let it steep, the mug on the table next her.  Brienne quickly drifted away in her own thoughts again, her lack of sleep and physical exhaustion reeking havoc on her ability to remain focused.  

She was soon startled, _again,_ but this time by the sound of the door to the kitchen banging open.  It was Davos, striding over to the cook with a serious look in his eyes.  He didn’t seem to notice her sitting by the fire.  So Brienne eavesdropped, turning her stiff back to the two men.  

“The King wants these things sent to the council room,” she heard Davos say and the crinkle of paper being passed between hands.  The council room?  Is that where everyone was?

The cook sighed.  “You could have sent a servant with this.  There was no need to come yourself, Ser Davos.”

There was a long pause.  “I heard a rumor you killed a sheep this morning,” Davos inquired, the excitement obvious in his accented voice.

“Aye, Ser Davos,” the cook replied, his grumpiness equally obvious.

“So, we’ll be having mutton then for supper? Fresh mutton?”

“Aye, Ser Davos,” he muttered, the noise of his knife hitting the wooden chopping board sounding almost menacing.

“Brilliant,” was his enthusiastic reply.  Unable to stop herself, perhaps due to her loopy overtiredness, Brienne let out a snort of laughter.  Who was that thrilled about mutton?

“Lady Brienne,” Davos said, his voice sounding surprised, as he walked over to  join her by the fire.   She returned his greeting with a curt nod, quickly stifling her chuckles.  She had not warmed to the Onion Knight, despite Jon trusting him and Tormund calling him a friend.  She would never forgive him for whatever part he played in Renly’s death.  At least the Red Women was no longer a resident of Winterfell.

“You look mighty calm, considering…” Davos commented, a cordial look in his eyes.  Brienne frowned.  What was he talking about?  He took a seat on the other stool beside the fire.

“Considering what?” she retorted, her lips in a grim line.  Davos looked surprised, reaching up to tug at the graying hairs on his chin.  

He appeared to think for moment, before replying in a voice that sounded unsure, “Well, what happened last night, my lady.”  

“You mean the fire?”

“What fire?”

Brienne’s  frown deepened as she hastily explained.  “There was a fire in Wintertown last night.  A deliberate fire.  Half a dozen free folk homes were set on fire by a group of bitter northerners.”

His eyes grew wide.  “That’s dreadful.  Is Tormund alright?  His family?  Brenhild and Munda and the others?”  The idea that Davos knew of Tormund’s family was stunning  to her and her own eyes widened slightly.

“They are fine,” she said slowly, still recovering from her surprise.  “There was one casualty: a young boy.  He was trapped in a burning home.” Without really considering what she was doing, Brienne continued to tell Davos about what had happened.  Perhaps she needed to talk about it more than she realized, all that she had witnessed during the fire weighing on her.   “Tormund rescued him… but it was too late.  He had already breathed in too much smoke.  By the time we got the fires out, it was dawn.  And he was dead.”  Brienne lowered her head, feeling a heavy sadness descend upon her.  “Raurne was his name,” she added softly, staring at the floor.

“There is no greater cruelty in this world than that of an innocent life lost,” Davos murmured, his voice sounding tight with emotion.  She turned her head up to look at him, curious, and saw the evidence of his own loss in the lines of his aged face.  

“They were lucky you were there to help, Lady Brienne,” he added as he met her eyes.   Again, Brienne was surprised, for his eyes brimmed with compassion for her.  She could form no response and quickly lowered her eyes again, feeling her cheeks grow warm.  She was not embarrassed, but ashamed of how dismissive she had been of him.  

Brienne quickly wanted to change the subject and so she pressed, “Ser Davos, tell me what happened last night.  If you weren’t talking about the fire… then what did you mean?”

Davos shifted his weight on the stool and spoke cautiously, “Perhaps I should not be the one to tell you, my lady.  It’s not my place.”  Brienne was confused, and growing irritated.  What the hell did that mean?

“Ser Davos, please,” she urged.  The apprehensive look on his face made her stomach clench with dread.  “You can’t possibly allude to something terrible happening and then tell me nothing.”  

The knight took a slow breath in and then relented, “You are right, my lady.”  He took another breath, seeming as though he was gathering his thoughts, before he spoke. “A man arrived at Winterfell last night, at the hunter’s gate.  He was filthy, barely keeping himself on his horse, weak from fever.  And half mad too.”  Davos paused.  Brienne just stared.  A man?  Who?  

Davos continued, his voice sounding careful.  “He kept shouting your name.  Calling for you over and over until he woke half the castle.” Shouting _her_ name?  What?  Why….?  And then suddenly, Brienne couldn’t breath, every drop of color draining from her face.

“It was your squire that finally recognized him,” Davos continued, not seeming to notice that Brienne was in utter shock.   “He doesn’t look the same without the lion crest on his armor and the white cape at his back.”  At that, she let out a strangled gasp, the roaring thunder of her pulse in her ears making it impossible to hear the rest of what he was saying.  It didn’t make sense.  How could he be here?

“Lady Brienne, are you alright?” Davos asked, his worried voice breaking through her stupor.  Her shock turned quickly into something else: desperation.  She needed to see him.   _Now._

Scrambling suddenly to her feet, and knocking the stool over in the process, Brienne turned to Davos and growled, “Where is he?  Where are they keeping him?”

His mouth fell open, aghast at her sudden frenzy.  “I’m not sure.”

Brienne stepped to him, trembling with emotion, as she towered over the Knight,  “Yes, you are.   Where did they take him?”

He shook his head, looking entirely overwhelmed as he looked up at her, before admitting, “I think- I think they took him to the west tower.  I don’t-”

Brienne turned and ran out the door before he could even finish his sentence.


	29. chapter twenty-nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne pleaded, not bothering to hide the urgency in her voice, “Let me see him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit is getting crazy. How many wounds does Brienne have now? Way too many to count. She is heading towards like a total breakdown if she doesn't get some sleep. And soon.
> 
> Don't forget to check out this [AMAZING ART](http://elenatria.tumblr.com/post/151017674613/illustration-for-slick-as-a-baby-seal-by-the) made by Elentria (elenatria.tumblr.com)!! She illustrated the awesomeness of Brienne receiving cunnilingus from a super happy Tormund. How awesome is that!?!?! And [CLICK HERE](http://elenatria.deviantart.com/) to see all her stuff on deviantart! 
> 
> As always, a huge thanks to Escribo86 for editing help!! Check out her awesome fic: [The Merger](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8079127/chapters/18512383)!

By the time Brienne had frantically climbed to the top of the west tower, she was reduced to a shaking, wheezing, hacking mess.  She had to lean her back against the cold stone wall, dizzy and gasping like a fish out of water.  Her lungs burned as if on fire and she pressed her eyes shut, willing the pain in her lungs, and legs, and back, and stomach to subside.  She was a bruised mess and had momentarily forgotten her injuries in her haste to see Jaime.

_Jaime._

Was it really true that he was here? It was absolutely absurd.  Why had he come here?  Why was he calling for her?  What mad desperation had overcome him?  Davos had said he was sick, feverish.  But that did not explain how he had ended up in Winterfell of all places.  Brienne pushed herself from the wall, gritting her teeth as her sore muscles screamed in protest.  She rounded a corner in the dim stone hallway and came upon not one, not two, but _three_ guards standing outside a thick wooden door to one of the bedrooms.  Brienne’s pace slowed, but did not stop.  Her hand moved subtly to grip the hilt of Oathkeeper.  She strode confidently up to the door, her head high.  One of the guards stepped in front of her, his grip tightening on the sword at his side as well.

“No one is to enter.  King’s orders,” he declared.  

Without thinking of the consequences of her words, she channeled Jaime himself and tried to lie, “I’m here on the King’s orders.”

“Bullshit,” the guard spat back at her, not believing her for a second.  Brienne gritted her teeth, her nostrils flaring with frustration.  She had never been good at lying and had never tried to learn, always wanting to speak words of honor and truth.  But honesty didn’t help in situations like this, especially when her emotions had overrun her common sense and all she could think of was getting through that door.

Deceit might not have been her strong suit, but she had many other skills.  She was taller than all of them, and probably stronger too.  She had taken on more than three by herself before.  Of course, she’d been wearing full armor and hadn’t been so battered and worn.  Brienne wasn’t thinking about that though.  She was only thinking how advantageous it would be to have Tormund at her side at the present moment.  The two of them would destroy these guards in a heartbeat, no problem.  And they would have fun doing it.

As it were, within seconds, the guard in front of her crumpled to the ground with a broken nose from the fierce blow she had dealt to his face. The other guards were quicker, drawing their swords.  Oathkeeper was freed from its sheath in the blink of an eye, the weight of the blade causing her fatigued shoulder to immediately throb.  Brienne ignored the pain, her eyes darting from one opponent to the next, blocking their sequential blows with more effort than was usual for her.  Why did it have to three against one when she was already exhausted?

In the back of her mind, Brienne knew that her actions, attacking men sworn to obey and protect the King, were wrong.  Treasonness even. Had she not convinced Tormund of the importance of following the King’s orders only hours before?  Brienne would be overwhelmed with shame when she came to her senses.  But she ignored all that, her focus foolishly narrow as she fought to get through that damn door.

But she was tired and slow.  One of the guard’s swords sliced into the skin on her forearm.  It was nothing but a flesh wound but it caused her to roar like a feral beast.  She flew at the man, hacking at him until his sword tumbled from his hands and he cowered before her terrifying attack. She backed off then, not so far lost that she would kill a man for remaining loyal to Jon.  But it was then, in her compassion, that she lost the fight.  

She stepped back, hesitating.  

She did not see that the guard with the bloodied nose had regained his footing.  He seized that moment to attack her from behind, his arms curling around her chest and arms in a violent grip.  The other guard knocked Oathkeeper from her hand before she could event think to retaliate against the man at her back or defend herself against the onslaught to her front.   Panic flooded over her.  She was disarmed and bound.

“Caught ya now, bitch,” the guard snarled as he pointed his sword at her, the blade nearly touching her, in order to subdue her.  But it did the opposite, pushing Brienne into a frenzied struggle to free herself.  The arms around her held firm, crushing against her chest, and nearly stealing the breath from her lungs.  As she wrestled to regain her freedom, the guard slid his blade against her gambeson, tearing the quilted fabric and scraping at the skin over her ribs.  Brienne ground her teeth together at the jagged pain and finally quit resisting, if only to catch her breath.  She had not given up yet.

The third guard, the one that she had utterly dominated in her fury, now stomped toward her, his face flushed as he sneered at her. Now that she was caught, he was no longer so scared of her.  This was not good.  She had seen that look in men’s eyes before.  She had humiliated him.  And he was going to make her pay.  Again, Brienne fought against the arms around her, causing the other guard to sheath his sword and move to hold her as well, his fingers digging painfully in her arm.  She was trapped in their grip, her heart palpitating furiously. Brienne forced herself not to flinch as the vengeful guard raised his fist to strike her.  The blow hit her right cheek, pain exploding in her face and blood filling her mouth as his fist caused the inside of her cheek to cut against her teeth.  Brienne spat out a mouthful of blood and braced herself for another strike, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry out.  

But another blow never came.

Jon’s forceful voice echoed in the stone hallway,  “Stand down.”  

There was a moment in which no one moved.  Brienne remained tense and alert, the only sound the raspy pants coming from her mouth.  And then they were releasing her, roughly, and she stumbled away from the three guards.  She caught herself on the the rough wall, one hand clasping the stone to keep herself from falling over.  She wiped the blood from her lips with the back of her hand and curled her other arm around her ribs.  She touched the warm wetness of blood leaking from her side and winced.  It wasn’t a deep wound, but it bled readily nonetheless.  She cared little about the cut and turned to face Jon.

She couldn’t read his face, but the expressionless look he gave her was more unsettling than if he had been blatantly angry.  An icy dread settled in the pit of her stomach.  She tried to catch her breath and will away the new pains that had just been added to her growing collection.

Jon ignored her, addressing his men instead, “Take Rogar to the maester to deal with that broken nose.  Then send up your replacements. You’re dismissed.”  The three guards obeyed, trudging down the hallway and past Brienne in order to get to the stairs.  She avoided their eyes, not out of fear, but because she was more focused on Jon’s face and attempting to determine what he was thinking.  She remained where she was, leaning against the wall, tonguing the cut on the inside of her cheek.   She knew she was subject to punishment for her insubordination, though she could not fathom what Jon might do if he chose to hold her accountable for her foolish actions.  

When the guards were finally gone, Jon strode toward her, his eyes steady on hers.   His voice was firm, unrelenting, “Do you know why I posted these guards here?”  He did not wait for her to answer. “It’s not to keep him in there.  The man can hardly stand.  He’s a threat to no one.”  The ice in her stomach grew heavy, twisting in her gut.  Jaime was very ill.  And she felt the burden of Jon’s disappointment weighing on her.  

He continued, “I posted those guards to protect him, Brienne.  Every house in the North lost fathers and sons and brothers fighting the Lannister army.  And if word gets out I’m harboring Jaime Lannister, it’ll take a hell of a lot more than three guards, or _you_ for that matter, to protect him.” His words were harsh but true.  Brienne felt tears pooling in her eyes but she fought to push them away.  She was too fatigued to stop the tears from forming, but damn it, she wouldn’t let herself cry.  Not now.  Not in front of Jon.  

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she lamented, lowering her head.  Jon said nothing, the silence stretching between them.  She heard him turn, step away, and then the sound of stone against metal as her sword slid against the floor as he picked it up.  He walked back toward her and a hot fear flashed inside of her as she imagined Jon striking her down with her own blade.  But he wasn’t that cruel… was he?

Eventually he spoke, his voice softening just slightly, “I can forgive you, Brienne.  This time.”   She let out a whoosh of breath in relief and slowly raised her eyes to meet his.  He was holding her blade out to her, his eyes looking serious but not unkind.  

“Thank you, Ser,” Brienne murmured, feeling overwhelmed that Jon was being so benevolent with her.  She certainly did not deserve it.   Brienne reached out to grasp her sword, wincing as the weight of the blade strained against her.  Jon noticed, his brow furrowing, as she slid Oathkeeper back to the sheath at her belt.

“You’re hurt,” he stated, his eyes lowering to take in the bleeding wound at her ribs.

“No, it’s nothing.  I’m just a little tired, Ser,” Brienne replied with the dismissive wave of her hand.

“Yes. Ser Davos informed me of what happened last night,” Jon spoke.  “About the fire and how you helped.  I’d be lying if your dedication to the Free Folk didn’t factor into my decision to look past your transgressions today.”  Brienne was surprised by that, staring down at Jon with her wide blue eyes.  “And I suppose you’re the reason the arsonist is in my dungeon and not sliced from neck to navel.”  Brienne nodded.

“So you tamed him then?  The wild beast that is Tormund?”  There was a hint of humor in Jon’s voice but Brienne could do nothing but blush and look away.  Tamed was one way to put it.  The other was that she had literally fucked some sense into him.   Regardless, she was not going to volunteer any additional information to Jon.

In truth, she did not want to think of Tormund right now.  It was quite the opposite as she tried to forcibly push thoughts of him from her mind. It was too confusing to try to reconcile her love for Tormund with her desperate need to see Jaime.

“Please Ser, I know I have no right, but may I ask for one more favor?” Brienne pleaded, not bothering to hide the urgency in her voice.  

“Let me see him,” she begged.  Jon stared up her, a questioning look in his eyes.  He did not understand, and further more, he appeared as though he was mistrustful of her motivations, his eyes narrowing at her.

“He saved my life, Your Grace.  And by extension, your sister’s,” Brienne explained.  “I know he has done reprehensible things, and his family is even worse. But there is good in him, I have seen it.  And if he is here then it means-”  

Jon cut her off, “It means he has nowhere else to go.”  They both fell silent then, Jon’s brow furrowed in thought.  Brienne waited, pressing her nails into her hands until they stung, forcing herself to be patient. 

He eventually continued, “I received a raven from King's Landing some time ago.  I didn’t think much of it at the time… but now it seems rather pertinent.  It declared that Jaime Lannister was an enemy of the Crown, and if found, was to be returned to King’s Landing to face punishment for his crimes.”  Brienne gasped.  An enemy of the Crown?  Of Cersei’s?  How could that be?

“It seems Ser Jaime thought that you would shelter him, despite the dire consequences  of protecting a traitor.”  He paused and Brienne just stood there, dazed, trying to grasp all that he was telling her.

“And you would, wouldn’t you?” Jon asked seriously, staring intently at her face.  She didn’t look away, but stared back sincerely, a tightness in her throat.

“Yes,” she breathed.  Jon nodded, as though he expected that answer from her, a slow exhale sliding from his lips.  

“Come then,” he replied, turning toward the door as he reached beneath his cloak to pull out a ring of keys.  His fingers flicked over them until he found the one he wanted.  He pushed the key into the lock and turned it, the sound of metal scraping against metal echoing in the stone hallway. Brienne felt her pulse pick up, sweat coming to her palms as he pushed the door open.

"I doubt he’s awake,” Jon muttered.  “The maester gave him quite a concoction to get him to rest.”  But Brienne wasn’t listening.  She was pushing her way past Jon as she rushed toward the sleeping form on the bed.


	30. chapter thirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never before in her life had she been happier to be called ugly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe all you wonderful readers a huge apology! I am so sorry it took me so long to write this chapter. It was not particularly easy to write but I hope it blows your mind. Or at least is a little surprising. Let me know what you think in the comments, whether you love it or hate it!!! 
> 
> Also, the only reason this chapter didn't take me another WEEK is because of the wonderful suggestions and encouragement from Escribo86. If you haven't checked out her Sansa/Petyr series [The Baelishes](http://archiveofourown.org/series/567308) then you are a DAMN FOOL!!!

A painful tightness assaulted Brienne’s chest as her cobalt eyes widened at the sight of Jaime lying prone on his back in the rumpled blankets on the bed.  He looked dreadful.  He barely looked like _Jaime_ at all.  Brienne’s hand came up to cover her open mouth and she froze two paces from the bed, too shocked to do anything but stare.  He was pale, so pale, and his cheekbones protruded garishly from his thinned face.  His greasy hair was matted with sweat to his forehead, so dirty it looked a dingy brown instead of the usual shining blonde.  Unkempt facial hair spread over his chin and upper lip as sweat dripped from his face and gathered at the base of his neck and jutting collarbones.   The blankets had fallen from his chest and revealed an emaciated body marked with cuts and bruises, the edge of a large bandage on his stomach peaking out. His eyes were closed and he appeared asleep, though lost in a ghastly nightmare, tossing and turning as pained moans tumbled from his cracked lips.  

Brienne took an unsteady step forward, the scent of his unwashed, sweaty, sickly body reaching her nose.  It was a familiar smell that brought her back to the memory of watching helplessly as a sick Jaime tumbled from his horse while the Bolton men just laughed and jeered at him.   He could barely stand but he had tried to fight them like a bloody fool.  And she had tried to help, throwing herself from the horse even though her hands were bound.  Swords were quickly pointed at her throat and she could do nothing but watch as Locke kicked him over and over in the ribs.  Fury had burned inside of her and she had clenched her jaw so tightly it felt as though her teeth might shatter.  She had never felt so helpless watching a friend suffer.  

Until now.

She could not stop the tears from flooding her eyes.  Brienne forced them away, stubbornly telling herself that Jaime had survived all that.  And he would survive this, damn it!

Brienne moved closer, her fingers reaching out to lightly touch his left hand.  His skin was clammy and hot, unnaturally hot.  She turned from him to reach for the pitcher of water on the nightstand.  Brienne poured some into the basin before grabbing the washcloth that lay beside it and sinking it into the cool water.  Wringing out the excess, she turned back to Jaime and gently placed the damp cloth on his forehead.  She could feel the boiling heat radiating from him, even through the wet cloth, and knew that his fever was dangerously high.  He stilled slightly at her touch, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps.

“Where is the maester?” Brienne growled, unable to stop the anger from spilling into her voice, as she turned to glare at Jon standing in the doorway.  “He should be here!  Helping him!”

Jon nodded, ignoring Brienne’s lapse in decorum due to her distress.  “He was here less than an hour ago.  He said he’d return shortly with a poultice that will hopefully slow the infection.”  Brienne turned back to Jaime, somewhat mollified by Jon’s answer but still finding it negligent that the maester had left his side at all.  She pulled a chair to his bedside and sank gingerly onto it, ignoring the pains in her body as she vowed she would not leave Jaime’s side until he woke.  

Jon moved farther into the room, coming to stand on the other side of the bed so he could meet Brienne’s eyes.  His voice was steady and calm as he explained, “The maester said the wound on his stomach was quite old, it happened some time ago.  Perhaps even at King's Landing before he left for Winterfell.  It might be _why_ he left.”  Brienne looked away then, her eyes fixing on the sweat beading on Jaime’s chest.  She didn’t know why Jon was telling her all this, but intuition told her that it wasn’t good.  It wasn’t good at all.

“Brienne,” Jon asserted in a voice that told her he wanted her to look at him.  She reluctantly obeyed, unable to stop her bottom lip from trembling. There was sympathy in his dark brown eyes as he continued, “The infection has had a long time to spread.  It’s unlikely that he will-”

“Stop,” she cried, abruptly cutting him off as panic swelled within her.  She knew she would not be able to bare it if he were to say the words out loud.  Brienne hung her head, her grip on Jaime’s hand tightening. One look at Jaime and it was obvious that his chances of survival were slim. Some part of her understood that.  But there was another part, a stubborn, relentless, delusional part of her that was determined he would improve. He couldn’t die.  He just _couldn’t._

She heard Jon let out a slow exhale and then the sound of his boots thudding against the wood floor as he walked to the door.  She couldn’t raise her head, her watery eyes remaining focused on the fading scars at Jaime’s wrist from all the time he had spent bound in chains.

Jon paused at the door and spoke again, “I have to get back to the council.  We’re deciding what to do with him if… when he pulls through.”  Jon stopped in the doorway, and Brienne heard him shift his weight, before continuing, “You’re welcome at the meeting, Brienne.  Due to your history with Ser Jaime, your counsel is highly valued.”  Brienne raised her head, looking over her shoulder at Jon with teary eyes.  She was taken aback that he respected her opinion.  But it didn’t change her decision.  

“I won’t leave him,” she breathed, before swallowing the lump in her throat and forcing herself to gather her thoughts.   She tried to keep her voice from breaking as she stated, “My father used to say that the enemy of your enemy is your friend.  Jaime is valuable, Your Grace, and to return to him to the Queen would be short-sighted.”

“I agree,” Jon nodded, the corner of his mouth curling up ever so slightly.  “Your father sounds like a wise man.”  Brienne breathed a sigh of relief that Jon shared her opinion and nodded back, before turning her gaze to Jaime again.  “I’ll tell the guards not to bother you,” Jon added. With that, she heard the door click shut behind him and the muffled sounds of his steps fading as he strode away.

And then they were alone, just her and Jaime.  She didn’t need to stop the tears from falling anymore and so they poured freely from her eyes, curling under her chin and dripping onto her blood-stained gambeson.  She gently pulled Jaime’s hand from the blankets and pressed it to her wet cheek.  Squeezing her eyes shut, she silently prayed as she wept.

She pleaded for mercy from the Mother, believing that Jaime had already suffered enough from the loss of his hand.  Brienne asked the Crone to give the maester wisdom and to guide him to heal Jaime.  She demanded strength for Jaime from the Warrior and beseeched the Smith to fix what was broken and destroy the sickness that wracked through his body.

She hesitated to pray to the Maiden, wondering if the goddess would even hear her prayers anymore.  And just like that, the memory of her lowering herself onto Tormund and the glorious feeling of him filling and stretching her flashed in her mind.  She felt a surge of shame for impulsively giving her maidenhead to Tormund.  What would Jaime think if he knew?  She shoved the thought from her mind and decided to pray anyway, hopeful the Maiden could see that her affection for Jaime was nothing but innocent and pure.    

She prayed to the Father, begging for justice, because Jaime had already atoned for his sins.    And lastly, she prayed to the Stranger, imploring him to spare Jaime and to choose another to take in his place.   

By the time she had finished her prayers, her tears had slowed to just a trickle.  Still clutching Jaime’s hand in hers, she lowered it from her face and used her other hand to wipe the remaining tears from her cheeks.  Taking a deliberate deep breath, she slowly opened her eyes.

Only to see Jaime staring up at her, his cool marble green eyes filled with awe.  Brienne gasped as his fingers tightened around hers.  

“You look even uglier when you cry, wench," Jaime teased, his voice hoarse and weak.  A laboured cough followed after his words.

“Jamie!” she cried, flinging herself over him and gathering his gaunt chest to hers in a desperate but gentle hug.  She was so overwhelmed with joy that he was awake and in sound enough mind to goad her.  Never before in her life had she been happier to be called ugly.  But he was far too limp in her embrace and she felt his head sag against her shoulder.   When she pulled back, his eyes were closed again.  Brienne was overcome with concern, laying him softly back on the pillow.  Not knowing what else to do, she pulled the clammy cloth from his forehead and dunked it in the cold water again before hastily returning it to him.  He didn’t stir and Brienne felt a fresh batch of tears pressing against the back of her eyes.  The slow rise and fall of his chest was the only indication he was even still alive.  

“Jaime, please,” she lamented, “Come back to me.”   Brienne leaned her elbows on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands.  He was too weak.  She shouldn’t have hugged him or moved him.  She had been completely imprudent.  Brienne blamed herself for his slip back into unconsciousness, cursing herself under her breath.  She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes until colors flashed before her eyes.  

She felt a soft caress against her head and gradually raised her eyes to take in the sight of Jaime, eyes open, brushing the hair from her furrowed brow before his hand slid to her cheek.  Her relief was palpable though it didn’t stop a few tears from slipping from her eyes.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” Jaime murmured, his scratchy voice barely above a whisper, brushing her tears away with his thumb. He smiled at her weakly and Brienne found herself blushing and befuddled from his gentle caress.   His arm was too weary to remain touching her for long, however, and Brienne caught his hand as it slipped from her face, cradling it between her calloused hands.  

“I didn’t think I’d make it,” he added, before a hacking cough overcame him.  It shook his whole body and sounded horrific, causing a feeling of dread to creep over Brienne.  She let go of his hand and turned to the nightstand, rushing to pour Jaime a cup of water from the pitcher.  She moved toward him and his fingers fumbled over the cup as he reached for it.  He was not strong to hold it, much less raise his head to drink. Brienne sat herself on the bed beside him.   She slid her arm around his back and gently pulled Jaime to a sitting position, holding him up as she lifted the cup to his parched lips.  He drank greedily, draining every last drop from the cup.  

“More?” she asked, and he shook his head, leaning his warm body against hers.  He closed his eyes and breathed in slowly, his head resting against her shoulder.  She set the cup back on the nightstand and waited, her arm curled protectively around his bare back. It felt normal, comfortable even, taking care of him. She had done it before.

Jaime was still for a long moment and Brienne found herself wondering if he had fallen back asleep.  When she shifted to move, his hand came to rest on her thigh.  She froze.

“I don’t think I _will_ make it, Brienne,” he mumbled, raising his tired eyes to hers.  She felt her stomach clench at the horror of his words, at the bleakness on his face.

“Don’t say that!” she barked, harsher than she intended, but trying to mask the fright she was feeling.  “The maester is going to return soon and he will stop the infection and your fever will break and everything will be fine,” she rushed to insist.  Please, she silently prayed, let it be true.

Jaime chuckled meekly at her, unconvinced, his laugh nearly turning into a coughing fit again. He took a shaky breath, turning his head back to rest against her shoulder.  “If only stubbornness could cure me, you’d heal me in a heartbeat,” he added.  She tilted her head down to meet his eyes and gave him an aggravated look.  Jaime just grinned back at her, and for a second, he looked like the Jaime she remembered; cocky, wisecracking, devilishly handsome.  His humor was short-lived, however, as his smile quickly faded and was replaced with a dazed look.

“Jaime?” Brienne asked, concerned by his sudden change in demeanor.

“Will you help me lie down?” he asked in a meek voice. Brienne nodded, swiftly moving to ease Jaime back onto the bed, before pulling her arm out from under him. She sank slowly back onto the chair beside the bed.  He lay there with his eyes closed, his hand clenching in a fist in the blankets below him.  Brienne could do nothing but watch, her hands tumbling over each other with worry.  Where the hell was the maester?  Shouldn't he be back by now?

“Need to find her.  Need to warn them.  My half has turned on me,” Jaime mumbled, much to Brienne’s confusion.  “Madness in her eyes,” he breathed, “I had to stop it.”  What was he talking about?  Brienne chewed on her bottom lip, concerned that his fever was making him delirious. She reached for his hand, squeezing it softly, and let out a relieved exhale when he opened his eyes again.  He looked puzzled for a moment, before he focused on her worried face.

“I thought about giving up,” he whispered, staring up at her.  Brienne stared back, listening keenly, though fully aware it could be more nonsense. “It would have been so easy to just lie down in a ditch somewhere and let myself bleed out or let the cold take me. Maybe the guards would find me and throw me in chains.  I considered just surrendering.  What did I have to live for?”  He curled his fingers around her hand, gently trailing his thumb over her palm. A frown pulled at her lips at his depressing words, her heart going out to him.  It was astonishing he had made it to Winterfell at all, especially alone, wounded, and hunted by the Queen’s men.  It must have been a harrowing journey.  

It took him a long moment before he could work up the strength to keep talking.  “But every time I thought about ending it, about how I couldn't take one more fucking step, I heard your _damn_ voice in my head.”  There was an edge to his voice, though it quickly softened as he continued. “And so I kept fighting… for you, Brienne.” She felt her cheeks get hot at his words and had not a coherent thought in her head to reply.  He had fought to live for _her_?

Jaime pulled her hand from the bed and tugged it to his mouth, pressing his lips against the back of her hand.  Brienne’s face only grew more flushed.  He was definitely delirious from his fever.  What was he doing?  

“Don’t you see? I had to keep living… I had to make it here… I had to tell you…” He lowered his hand to his chest, still holding tight to hers.  She felt her pulse pick up at the look in his eyes.  It was a curious look, but she realized that she recognized it... He was looking at her the same way Tormund looked at her.  

His grip on her hand tightened as he confessed earnestly, “Brienne… It took me forever to realize it… But now I’m sure… _I love you._ ”

Brienne’s eyes grew as big and round as saucers.  “Oh Jaime,” was all she could manage to reply.  


	31. chapter thirty-one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terrible images of Brienne caring for Jaime flashed in his mind, tormenting him, making his blood boil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo! Are you all having as much fun as I am? LOL!! Seriously though, you gotta love the drama.
> 
> Super duper thanks to WriterChick, formerly known as Escribo86, for all the editing help. Check out her Sansa/Petyr series [The Baelishes](http://archiveofourown.org/series/567308)! It just keeps getting better and better!!!

“She hasn’t left his side once,” Jon explained, his voice serious but tentative, as though he expected Tormund to completely explode with fury at his words.

But in the moment, he wasn’t angry.  He was worried, a heavy feeling of dismay settling over him at Jon’s revelation that Brienne had spent the last two days refusing to budge from the sick southerner's side.  Tormund swallowed a large gulp of mead, his fingers tightening painfully on the empty mug as he brought it down on the table between them with a loud thunk.  He wished he hadn’t left the sour goat's milk he’d brought from the free folk camp in his quarters.  He needed something stronger right now, something that burned as it went down.  

The servant boy standing in the corner of council room rushed forward to refill his cup.  Tormund took the pitcher from his shaky hands and waved him away.  He refilled his own mug, still finding being waited on supremely uncomfortable.  He didn’t think he’d ever get used to it, even if Jon went through with his crazy scheme to make him Lord of Dreadfort.  The bastard was fucking mad.

He took another large drink of mead while Jon eyed him cautiously.  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Tormund growled, “You’re sure we can’t just send him back to the Queen?”  

Jon shook his head, his shoulders sagging slightly, “You sound like Sansa.”  Tormund raised his eyebrows at that, surprised at the bitterness in his voice, as Jon continued, “She’s got that damn Littlefinger whispering in her ear, plotting ridiculous plans to take over Winterfell… and probably the whole fucking kingdom.”  Jon scowled then, pausing to take a drink from his own mug of mead.  “I don’t trust him.  And I don’t understand the hold he has over her,” he admitted, an apprehensive look passing over his face.

“Want me to kill him?  Chop his balls off?” Tormund replied, only half joking.  “Tell you what, I’ll kill the Littlefinger worm and you send the Lannister cunt back to wherever the hell he came from.  There ya go! All our problems solved!”  He grinned at Jon, a rousing look in his eyes at the prospect of fixing all this shit with violence.  Jon smiled back, and for a brief moment, the two men shared a hearty laugh.  They needed it. They had done nothing in the last hour but talk about problems: the conflict between the northerners and the freefolk, the group of arsonists that Jon had rounded up awaiting punishment in the dungeon, the lack of firewood and food, the plummeting temperatures of the encroaching winter, an empty Dreadfort, Jon’s efforts to secure his position as King of the North, _Jaime fucking Lannister_ …

But their laughter was short-lived, too warm to persist in the coldness of reality.  Jon rubbed his brow, closing his eyes for a moment in thought, before he returned his grim stare to Tormund.  “I can’t kill Littlefinger.  Winterfell is still swarming with his men. And if I send Jaime back to King's Landing now, he’ll surely die on the journey.”  Jon paused, shaking his head.  “Perhaps that’s what you want, but Brienne would never forgive me. Or you for that matter.”  

Tormund sighed, knowing Jon was right. How the fuck was he supposed to compete with a half-dead man?  He couldn’t fight him or insult him without looking like a complete asshole. And she loved him.  She fucking loved him and he was here.  

And there was not enough fucking mead in the whole damn castle to dull the ache in his heart.

“What are you going to do?” Jon asked, after a long moment, a sympathetic look in his eyes.  Tormund shrugged and then drained another mug of mead.  He had lost count of how many he had had, but he felt the familiar warmth in his belly and knew it had been plenty.

“Everything I can,” he muttered.  Hopefully it would be enough…

-

It was nearing dusk by the time Tormund climbed the stairs to the west tower.  He hadn’t been stalling, per se, but there several things that had to be accomplished first, like making sure Dryn and Munda were settled in their quarters.  He was relieved Jon had welcomed them to Winterfell, quickly finding rooms for them and agreeing with Tormund that both could be useful.  

Then he had bathed, like a god damned southern gentleman, scrubbing the days and days of dirt and grime from himself.  The least he could do was not smell like a pig pen.  Munda had insisted on combing the tangles from his hair and he had grumbled through the whole ordeal, while Dryn had done nothing but try and fail to hold back his laughter.  He only shut up when Munda threw the comb at him and then quickly followed after, lunging at her cousin.  While they tussled, Tormund had slipped away unnoticed.  He found a servant to build a fire in Brienne’s room and draw her a bath as well.  Lastly, he had requested a meal to delivered to her room.  Maybe he could tempt her away from Jaime’s side with the promise of a hot meal and bath?  It wasn’t much, but maybe it would work.   He could hope.

Tormund paused at door to the bedroom where Jaime had been sequestered.   His hand was hesitant on the cold metal latch.  The guards had moved aside without protest due to Jon’s written orders declaring he was free to enter.  Even unhindered, Tormund found he couldn’t move. Suppose he entered and she took one look at him and told him to leave.  What if she was weeping for Jaime, holding him to her breast? Terrible images of Brienne caring for Jaime flashed in his mind, tormenting him, making his blood boil.  Tormund forced himself to breath deeply and relax the tension in his shoulders.  He couldn’t go in there half cocked and furious.  He had to do this right.  He had to be the Tormund she loved, not the one that made her frown and turn her eyes to steel, refusing to let him in.

The latch gave away easily under the pressure of his hand, the door swinging open slowly.  He held his breath as he took in the sight before him.  A pale man lay in the center of a bed, this thin frame dwarfed in comparison to the large bed.  He certainly didn’t look like much.  The blankets were arranged neatly around his sleeping frame, his breath so shallow Tormund briefly wondered if he was even still alive.  Brienne sat to the left of the bed in a wooden chair.  She was slumped uncomfortably over the edge of the bed, her arms folded under her head as a makeshift pillow.  She was asleep too, her eyebrows furrowed with worry even in her slumber.  

Tormund let out the breath he was holding, feeling everything in him ease at just the sight of her.   Fuck, he loved her.  It had only been two days but he swore he had somehow forgotten how beautifully golden her hair was, how many adorable freckles dotted her nose, how much he craved the perfect pout of her pink lips.  He moved quietly across the room, kneeling down beside her so he was eye level with her as he rubbed his hand tenderly over her back.

“Brienne?” he whispered softly, trying not to startle her awake.  Slowly, she began to stir, a low groan escaping her lips as she tugged her eyes open.  They were red and puffy.   _From crying,_ he realized bitterly.  She blinked at him, seeming confused he was there.  Then her eyes widened and the next thing he knew, she was flinging her arms around his shoulders and burying her head in his neck as she tumbled from the chair and into his arms.  He was surprised and nearly stumbled backward from the sudden weight of her against his chest.  But he braced himself, holding her snugly to him, so damn happy that he couldn’t stop the grin from bursting onto his face.

“I missed you,” she mumbled against his neck, her strong arms tightening around him and her warm body pressed against his.  Tormund brushed his lips over her forehead, and held her back just as firmly, until he felt her frantic grip on him relax.  Fuck happy, he was _ecstatic_!  

He pulled back from her then, the smile still on his lips, as he murmured, “Come on.”  He climbed to his feet, pulling her gently up with him.  He noticed with concern how stiff she was, how she winced as she moved.  Had she hurt herself?  Oh fuck.  Had he done that to her?   Guilt tugged at him and vowed to himself he would rub the tension from her muscles with his hands, kiss every bruise, sooth every ache he could… if she would let him.  His unease grew ten-fold, however, when his eyes landed on the wound crusted with blood on her ribs.

“Fuck Brienne!  What happened?” he gasped, his fingers ghosting over the edge of her ripped gambeson.  She sighed, looking immensely exhausted, her eyes drifting away from his.

“I lost a fight,” she muttered in a cold voice, crossing her arms under her chest and hiding the wound from his prying eyes.  It was then he noticed the additional wound at her wrist, the dried blood sticking the fabric to her skin.  She turned her head away from him then, her eyes moving to rest on Jaime’s sickly face.  Tormund gritted his teeth, the joy he felt from her embrace fading abruptly.  Had he misread the situation?  What the fuck was she thinking?  He reached for her hand, sliding his fingers tentatively over her stiffly crossed arm, careful to avoid the wound.

“Will you let me clean and dress them?” he pleaded.  “It’s not safe, leaving them exposed like that.”  Brienne turned back to him, looking almost surprised by his concern.  She nodded, uncrossing her arms and accepting his attempt to hold her hand.  It was a small victory, but Tormund was pleased nonetheless.  Impulsively, he decided to press his luck.

“Look, I know what it’s like to sit at someone’s bedside and feel completely fucking helpless,” he confessed bluntly, reaching up to slid his free hand gingerly along her cheek.  She stared at him, narrowing her eyes as she contemplated his words.  But she didn’t move away from his touch.

“You think the more you forget yourself, the more it will help them.  But it fucking won’t do a damn bit of good!”  His voice was almost a growl now and he had to stop and collect himself, looking away from her as memories of Gilwen came flooding back so strongly it nearly took his breath away.  He had watched her waste away, tortured by her raspy voice begging him to put her out of her misery.  Brienne’s hand came up to cover his own and when he finally raised his eyes to look back at her, she was searching his face.  He ignored the inquisitive look she gave him and pressed on.

“Brienne, there’s a fire, a hot meal, and a bath waiting for you in your room,” he explained with a heavy sigh.  “I’ll stay here with him so you don’t have to worry.  Please just go take care of yourself.”   Brienne continued to stare at him with her enigmatic sapphire eyes, her silence nearly driving him mad.  She took a step toward him, pulling his hand from her cheek as they stood facing each other, less than a foot apart, both of her hands in his.

“You would do that for me?” she breathed, awe in her voice, as she lightly squeezed his hands.  He would do _anything_ for her.  How did she not know that?  Tormund nodded, his eyes glued to hers.  She pursed her lips, her eyes darting to Jaime, before returning to his.

“He hasn’t come to all day,” Brienne said weakly, the tears pooling in her eyes. Tormund could see her struggling to not let them spill down her cheeks. He tried not to let on how much her distress for Jaime aggravated him.  Fucking hell.  

“The maester should be back soon to change his bandage.  He always comes around dusk,” she added, letting go of one of his hands.  Brienne turned to the door and he turned to the chair, ready to sit and watch Jaime, just as he promised, until she returned.

But the grip of Brienne’s other hand didn’t loosen from his.  In fact, she held tight to him, her fingers curling around his wrist.  He was confused and turned back to look at her.

“You said you’d dress my wounds,” she murmured, her voice sullen.

“What?” he asked, his befuddlement only growing.  Didn’t she want him to stay with Jaime?  A curious look passed over Brienne’s face and Tormund was almost convinced it was a brief flicker of amusement.  

"I want you to come with me…”  A pink blush spread alluringly over her cheeks as she added, “...to my room.” Tormund’s mouth fell open in stunned amazement.  He could not seem to wrap his head around the fact that she had stubbornly refused to leave Jaime’s side for two days, despite the urging of Podrick, Davos, and even Jon.  And now she was so willing to leave with him. Had he been worried for nothing?

Brienne chuckled at the shocked face he made, looking as though she couldn’t stop herself from laughing even if she wanted to.  Her beautiful laugh didn’t last long though, quieting quickly as a guilty look marred her lovely face.   She glanced over at Jaime and then lowered her eyes to the ground.  God damn it, what was she thinking?  Tormund would’ve given his left ball to know what the hell was was going on her head.

After a moment of hesitation, she seemed to make a decision.  Brienne tugged him after her and this time he didn’t resist, following after her like an obedient puppy.  She lead him through the open door and out into the hallway, leaving the door ajar and demanding the guards keep watch on Jaime while she was gone.  She didn’t seem to care that she was holding his hand in front of all of them and completely ignored the guards’ odd looks.  Tormund felt as though his face might splinter in half from the wide grin plastered on his face.    

The guards swiftly moved to obey her, though Tormund barely noticed, his eyes focused only on Brienne as he trailed behind her.  She lead him through the hall, down the stairs, and straight to her bedroom, her hand remaining clasped firm on his.

She really _had_ missed him, Tormund finally realized.  It was obvious, actually, considering the way she had thrown her arms around him and insisted he come with her.  And she loved him, he told himself, maybe as much as she loved that Jaime cunt.  Maybe, Tormund couldn’t help but dream, she loved him more…


	32. chapter thirty-two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit. He was trying to show her how caring he could be, not piss her off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D 
> 
> That is all.
> 
> As always, thanks to WriterChick, formerly known as Escribo86, for all the editing help. Check out her Sansa/Petyr series [The Baelishes](http://archiveofourown.org/series/567308)!

“Gods, that smells good!” Brienne exclaimed as she entered her room, dropping Tormund’s hand from hers and nearly lunging for the steaming meal on the wooden table.  He chuckled at her voracity, looking around the room and pleased to see the roaring fire in corner and the filled bath awaiting her.

The bath.  His eyes moved longingly over to Brienne, her back to him as she devoured her food.  He wondered earnestly if she would let him stay while she bathed.  Maybe she would let him wash her back, her hair, her chest… Tormund gulped, suddenly feeling too hot with his heavy furs and the roaring fire.  He tugged the heavy outer furs from his chest, tossing them on her bed before striding over to sit beside her on the other chair at the table.  

She looked over at him, pausing her eating for a moment, a stain of grease on her lips from the mutton.  Swallowing, Brienne said, “Thank you for this, all this.”  Her hand swept over the room before her eyes turned back to her nearly empty plate, “I didn’t realize how hungry I was…”

“You want me to get you some more?” he asked, chuckling softly, unable to stop himself from reaching over to wipe the grease from her lip with his thumb.  She sucked in a breath, her lips parting slightly under his touch.  She stared at him and he could see a spark of desire in the crystal pools of her eyes.  Then she shook her head at his question, lowering her eyes as a small frown tugged at her lips.  Curious.

“Brienne,” he murmured, reaching for her hand.  He wanted to come right and ask her what she was thinking, what she felt for Jaime, what had gone on the last two days while she had stayed by his side.  Tormund wanted to know, point blank, where he stood with her.  He didn’t like not knowing.  But she seemed to sense that he was on the verge of asking something important and dropped his hand as she stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor in her haste.

“Will you help me take off my gambeson?  My shoulders are still sore,” she blurted.  He frowned, fully aware that she was trying to interrupt him before he could turn the conversation to more serious matters.  It was odd.  Usually she was so forthright with him.  But Tormund could play along, at least for a little while, especially if it meant assisting her with shedding the thick garment so he could have easier access to clean the wound on her ribs.  And less fabric between him and her soft, freckled skin.

“Aye,” Tormund said, standing up and moving towards her.  She kept her eyes down as he slid his hands under her gambeson and tugged it up her sides.  He was sure her breath quickened as he touched her and he was reminded of the night he had first helped to remove her armor.  She had tried so hard to hide that she was attracted to him, but he had noticed then, as he did now, how readily she responded to the closeness of him. Cheeks turning pink as she bit her bottom lip, Brienne stiffly raised her arms and bent over slightly so he could pull the heavy chainmail off of her. She flinched as the dried bloody fabric was tugged off the wound on her forearm.

“Oh shit,” he murmured, dropping the gambeson on the table and taking her wrist gently in his hands.  He checked the wound carefully for it had started to lightly bleed again.

“It’s fine,“ she replied, dismissively.  Tormund disagreed.

“Sit,” he growled, and she obeyed, but not without a testy look on her face from his command.  Shit.  He was trying to show her how caring he could be, not piss her off.  He took a nervous breath as walked to the nightstand and retrieved the washbasin and pitcher, along with a washcloth and a bar of soap.  He carried it all over to table beside her and sat in the other chair, pulling it in front her.  Tormund poured water in the basin and then dampened the wash cloth, before taking her wrist in his hand again. He got to work gently scrubbing the dried blood from her skin.  He was careful not to further reopen her cut, which quickly clotted again.  She winced when he used the soap, but did not tell him to stop.  He worked as fast and softly as he could, wanting to spare her as much pain as possible.  When the wound was sufficiently clean, he raised his eyes to hers. Her eyes were soft when she looked down at him, seeming to appreciate the care he taking with her.  He grinned up at her, love in his eyes.

“Can you hold up your tunic so I can do the other one?” he asked, trying to squelch the eagerness in his voice over the prospect of seeing more of her milky skin.  Brienne nodded, leaning back and tugging up her tunic and undershirt.  Tormund couldn't help but gawk at the exposed flat expanse of her muscular stomach, though he felt remorseful over the purplish bruise on her side from where he had stuck her during their brawl. He was soon distracted, however, as his eyes greedily lingered on the the faint curve of her hip bones peeking out of her trousers and the slight swell of the underside of her breasts as she held her shirt up.  It had been too damn long since he had seen so much of her.  She’d only been half naked when they had fucked, and before that, he had touched her nearly fully clothed in the dim fire light.  In fact, he hadn’t seen her naked since the last time they had been together in her room.  She was more sexy than he remembered.  Damn.  She didn’t even need to touch him and he was already half-hard and aching for her.

“Are you going to clean the wound?  Or just stare?” Brienne teased, a playful gleam in her eyes.  

Tormund smiled as he shrugged helplessly, “Can you blame me?  It’s been ages since I’ve seen so much of you.”  He reached out to gently slid his hands along her bare waist, careful to avoid the bruise and cut.  “You are so fucking perfect,” he purred.

She rolled her eyes at him, but he could see, with satisfaction, the color rise to her cheeks at his compliment.  He chuckled, leaning forward to plant a soft kiss on her uncovered breast bone.  He heard her gasp when his warm mouth touched her skin. Tormund adored how responsive she was. He was so eager to learn more of what made her moan and gasp and tremble.  He grinned and sat up so he could gaze at her flushed face, her blue eyes staring deeply into his.  He had missed her so damn much.  

But there was work to do.  Tormund slid off the chair and knelt beside her so he could more easily tend to her wound.  The red slash stretched from under her left breast to her sternum, dried blood gathered in the grooves of her ribs.  He couldn’t tell how bad it was without cleaning it first but it was obviously much deeper than the wound at her wrist.  Tormund frowned as he slowly began to wipe the blood away, his growing concern for her turning into irritation as he came to realize the full extent of the wound.  It was not just a shallow cut.  It deep enough to be worrisome.

“The maester probably checked on your southern _friend_ a dozen times while you were with him.  Why didn’t you have him look at this?” he chided.

“I- I don’t know,” she admitted, a hiss escaping her lips when he began to use the soap on the cut.  “It didn’t seem that bad,” she mumbled through gritted teeth.  He felt lousy for hurting her, but it was the only way to clean the wound.  He worked efficiently and soon was finished, her pale skin red from the scrubbing.

“I’m surprised it stopped bleeding without stitches,” he noted, not bothering to hide his displeasure at her neglecting to properly take care for the wound.  He had known too many that had succumbed to infection from such carelessness. “There’s no point bandaging it now if you’re going to bathe,” he added. Tormund turned his head up to meet her eyes as he declared, “But you need to be more careful.”

“Are you lecturing me, Tormund?” Brienne queried, an amused smirk on her lips as she lowered her tunic.  “I thought I was perfect.”

“Your body is perfect. I’m not sure about what’s between your ears,” he jested, standing back up and dropping the bloodied wash cloth in the water basin.  

“Oh really?” she replied, the wry smile never leaving her lips.  “Careful now.  You’re insulting the woman who bested you with a sword and her bare hands.”  He laughed at that.  He loved the idea that she could, and had, beaten him.  Tormund couldn’t wait until they were both healed enough for a rematch, his blood rushing south at just the thought of it.  But he felt bad that they had brawled and fucked and then she had left Wintertown so abruptly.  He hadn’t even asked her if she was alright and he knew he hadn’t been gentle with her during the fighting or the fucking.

Tormund sank back into the chair in front of her and met her eyes. “That's a nasty bruise I gave you on your side.  Are you healing alright?” he implored.

Brienne nodded, and then replied frankly, “How ‘bout you?  I must have left a bruise from that choke hold.”  Tormund chuckled.  She had indeed. He had gnarly bruises on his chest and neck from her.  

“Aye, it’s fucking impressive. But I’m fine.”  

“Let me see,” she demanded.  He cocked his head at her command but complied after only a second of thought.  Tormund tugged the furs off his chest and over his head, tossing them on the table beside him.  Her eyes moved slowly but brazenly over his bare chest.  Then she scooted closer and a lusty look appeared in her eyes as she glided her hands over his skin.   He fucking loved how much she reveled in his bare chest, how she didn’t even bother to hide her desire for him as soon as he shed his tunic. Her hands were warm and soft as she slid them over his stomach muscles, the wanton look in her eyes causing his pulse pound and his trousers to suddenly feel far too tight.  She leaned even closer, moving her hands up his body to his pecs, pausing at the dark bruises on his neck and chest.

“It’s quite bad,” she admitted, her voice thick, but with lust or concern, he could not tell.  She smirked at him before proclaiming, “I’m pretty sure the ones on my ass are worse.”

Tormund snorted with laughter.  When he could speak, he goaded, “Well, there’s only one way to know for sure.  Let me see.”  

Brienne sent him an incredulous look, before quipping, “You first.”

Tormund shrugged nonchalantly and then stood, his hands moving to unfasten his belt.  He was not the least bit shy, never had been, and quite enjoyed the idea of his eager cock no longer having to be constrained by his pants.

“Tormund!” she yelped, her face instantly red, as she scrambled to her feet.  Her hands darted out to cover his and stop him from pulling off his pants. “I was joking!”

He stilled under her touch, looking up at her with a flirtatious sneer on his lips.  “I wasn’t,” he grunted, pulling his hands from hers to smooth them over her waist and then slide them down her back.  “I’d never joke about your ass,” he murmured as his paws crept lower to lightly caress the curve of her backside.  Her eyes grew wide, her face turning somehow redder, as he cooed in his baritone voice, “It’s so round and firm in my hands.”  He squeezed softly and she let out a little moan, reaching up to grip his bare shoulders.  

He was tempted then to grab her roughly and pull her against him and his hard cock. But he fought to restrain himself.  She was already bruised and still sore from their last fuck.  Tormund wanted their next time together to be different: gentler, slower, sweeter.   And, he realized, he hadn’t even kissed her once yet.  He was getting ahead of himself.  Tormund did pull her closer to him, but gingerly, just as his mouth touched hers.  She was eager and ready, parting her lips for him, her tongue dancing over his.  Her hands gripped him tighter as she moved her body snug against his, his cock brushing against her thigh.  It was his turn to moan now and he did so readily into her mouth.

After they had thoroughly reaquainted themselves with the other’s mouth, Brienne dragged her lips off of his.  They were both panting, holding on tight, gazing in each other’s eyes, and acting like they had been separated for months, instead of mere days.  

“I wish the bath was big enough for both of us,” she breathed in a low voice, her hands moving to fondle his chest again as she rubbed herself against his thick cock.  Her words and soft teasing made him groan with need and he tightened his grip on her ass.  She might have wished the bath was bigger, but he wished she hadn’t stopped him from taking off his pants.  The throbbing head of his cock was so sensitive as it strained against the heavy leather furs on his lower body.   The press of her hips against his own nearly made him cum right there in his trousers.

“I already bathed.  Besides, I don’t have to get in there with you to touch you,” he growled hungrily, leaning forward to nip at her neck.  “But you better bathe quick… before the water cools.”  Brienne pulled back from him then, smiling coyly.  She kept her eyes on his as she slowly raised her hands above her head.  He stared at her for a moment, not understanding, until he realized she wanted him to undress her.  Oh hell yes. Tormund licked his lips, finally letting go of her perfect little ass to move his hands up her back and then forward, trailing his fingers over her stomach.  She sighed, gazing blissfully down at him.  He gripped the hem of her tunic and then began to slowly tug it up her body, leaning down to follow his hands with a trail of soft kisses. Tormund kissed up her stomach and over her breasts.  He purposefully avoided her already taut nipples just to make her crave it more.  He smirked to himself when she let out a frustrated growl.  But he just kept going, slowly tugging the shirt over her head and kissing along the underside of her arms.   She giggled at that, squirming, and Tormund beamed at the knowledge that he had found a ticklish spot.  He’d have to remember that.  It wasn’t until he had pulled the tunic completely from her and dropped it to the floor, that he finally gave in and dipped his head to close his lips around one of her eager pink nipples.  Brienne cried out, arching into him, her fingers digging into his shoulders.  As Tormund teased her with his mouth, he reached down to loosen her pants, slowing pushing them over her hips until they dropped to the floor.  

He ceased his torment on her teats to slowly sink to his knees before her, kissing down her stomach and then trailing his tongue along her hips bones.  Brienne moaned, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back.  She still gripped his shoulders for balance, her fingers so tight on him it hurt.  He didn’t care.  Tormund curled his fingers into the waistband of her small clothes, tugging them down slowly and planting a soft kiss just above the tuft of blonde hair hiding her tasty little pussy from him.  His large hands slowly guided her small clothes over her thighs and down her legs until they landed at her ankles with the rest of her clothes.  

Finally, she was completely fucking naked.  And he gazed up at her from his place at her feet, feeling as though he was kneeling before the most exquisite being in all of the known lands.  He was so fucking hard it was nearly painful.  Tormund slid his hands back up her legs, his eyes fixed on those curly golden hairs, fully intending to devour her with his eager mouth.

But she stopped him, her hand firm on his forehead.  He was flabbergasted and turned his head up to gawk at her.  Brienne looked down at him, a devilish spark in her eyes as she shook her head.  “No,” she barked.

And then she was moving away from him, lifting one of her gorgeous long legs up and stepping into the waiting bath.  He watched her, mouth agape, as she abandoned him to sink into the steaming water, the most glorious sound of pleasure tumbling from her mouth.

“Tormund,” she murmured, eyes closed and head leaning back in relaxation, “Can you fetch the soap? I might need help."


	33. chapter thirty-three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His breath was hot in her ear as he whispered, “Missed me, didn’t ya?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so, I totally don't have any good excuses for taking so long to post. I am so sorry!!! I hope you all are still with me! Real life got in the way and everything is just fucking crazy. But I love writing this story! And I love all you readers!! I promise I won't abandon this, even if it might take me a while to post sometimes. We are gonna see this through to end! Whatever that may be! ;) 
> 
> Thanks to WriterChick for all the great ideas and editing help. Check out her Sansa/Petyr series [The Baelishes](http://archiveofourown.org/series/567308)!

She was being cruel.  She was being selfish.  She knew this.

And yet, for once in her damn life, she didn’t care.

It was probably the last 72 hours of minimal sleep, smoke inhalation, sustaining numerous wounds, giving up her maidenhead, the lack of eating, constant bloody worrying… not to mention the declaration of love from a man that Brienne had dreamed of being with for months but had literally _just_ decided to move on from.  It was all too much.

She didn’t have the energy to care anymore.  About any of it.

That was a lie.  But it was a lie she told herself to keep from curling into a ball on the floor and sobbing until she couldn’t breath.  Caring for Jaime had sucked every last iota of strength and energy and sense from her.  And he was not getting better.  If her mind even drifted near that realization, her chest would tighten and her breath would catch in her throat as a cold panic seized her.  

It was better not to think about it, not to dwell on Jaime lying in a bed a few floors above her, fighting against the infection that wracked his body. She knew it was selfish and cruel to try to forget about him, even for just a minute.  But for the sake of her sanity, she needed to laugh and smile and pretend like everything was fine.

Tormund and his gentle hands, handsome smile, and brawny chest were seven hells worth of a distraction.  He was more than just that though. He was a source of strength and reassurance for her.  He made her feel like everything was going to be alright, everything was going to make sense, even if only for a fleeting moment.

So she tried, desperately, to focus on nothing but him, nothing but the present moment.

The warm bath felt wonderful on her sore, aching body.  Brienne slipped slowly into the tub until the water came up to tickle her ears.  She didn’t mind that she had to bend her long legs to fit in the bath, her pale knees peeking out into the cool air.  Even the sting of her wounds as she sank into the water was worth it to be able to begin to feel clean and relaxed and like herself again.

Tormund, _oh Tormund_ , he was just so perfect. She did not deserve him, not now, maybe not ever.  He scrambled from where she had left him, slack-jawed and awestruck on the floor, snatching up the soap and moseying up to the side of the bath.  It was almost odd to her that she felt no embarrassment, no shyness, being entirely naked in front of him.  If someone had told her a month ago that she would give her maidenhead to a fierce wildling man who would be perfectly content to worship her at her feet, she would have knocked them to the dust in her aggravation at their cruel joke.  But it wasn’t a joke.  It was real.  His devotion to her as real as the jagged scars on her neck, the walls of Winterfell, the encroaching winter storm.

Infatuation spilled from Tormund’s bright green eyes as he urged in his deep voice, “Want me to wash your back?”  Brienne contemplated his offer for a moment, wondering if she had betrayed  Tormund by devotedly  tending to Jaime, or if she was betraying Jaime now by being with Tormund. For once in her life, Brienne felt that the clear line of loyalty was blurred.  A move in either direction lead to a betrayal of the other.

When Jaime confessed his love for her, she had said nothing, having had no capability to form coherent thoughts, much less words, in the moment. He had taken her stunned silence as a sign that she loved him back and wanted to be with him.  Brienne had not corrected him.  

She was ashamed of herself for her passiveness and her cowardice. _If only_ Jaime had told her his feelings at Riverrun, before she had pushed herself to let him go, before she had given herself to Tormund.  Why now?  Why did he love her now that she loved another, now that everything was so bloody complicated?

“Brienne?” Tormund said softly, an eager smile on his bearded face as his hand skimmed the surface of the water and brushed against her bare shoulder.  She blinked, forcing away her swirling storm of thoughts, and focusing on the adoring man beside her.

“Yes, my back,” she murmured, sitting up and leaning forward, exposing the freckled skin of her back to him.  His touch was gentle as he soaped up his hands and then slid them against her skin, his strong fingers kneading away the tension in her tired shoulders.  Brienne exhaled, closing her eyes and concentrating on nothing but his glorious touch.  She found that switching her focus to him came with ease; his hands felt _so_ good on her.

She wanted Tormund to touch her until she was transformed into a trembling, panting mess.   She wanted thoughtless bliss.  She intended to lose herself in his caress and be washed away in a wave of her own desire.  This is what she wanted right now.  This was the calloused, self-indulgent thing she wanted the most.

And she knew Tormund desired nothing more than to give her exactly what she wanted, completely unaware of her divided loyalty.  Tormund’s soapy hands slid up her neck and to her head, softly washing her hair.  His fingers massaged her scalp, sending little shivers of pleasure down her spine. Brienne let out a low moan, tilting her head back into his hands.

Tormund chuckled, before teasing her in his growly voice, “Already moaning, huh?  Just you wait, my lady.”  The promise of the pleasure he delighted in giving her made Brienne bite her bottom lip, a fluttering feeling growing in the pit of her stomach.  She pushed away the little quiver of guilt at the back of her mind and moaned again, louder this time, just to urge him on.  Tormund readily complied, his hands slipping down to her shoulders before sliding forward and sinking beneath the water to cup her breasts in his large, soapy hands.  She arched against his touch, pushing her chest further into his hands as she gripped the edges of the bath.

His breath was hot in her ear as he whispered, “Missed me, didn’t ya?”

She had.  She _really_ had.  He didn’t wait for her to reply.  Tormund rolled her hardened nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, tugging firmly and causing a lusty cry to leap from her lips.  It felt incredible, her breath quickening, the fluttering turning into sparking fire in her belly. He chuckled again.  It was a smug sound, revealing how proud he was of his ability to turn her into putty beneath his skilled hands.  She might have been annoyed by his arrogance, if she could have held more than one thought in her head.  As it were, her tired mind was capable of nothing but basking in the pleasure he was giving her.  

She could, however, moan again and did so, the needy sound combining with his name as she begged him for more, _"Tormund!”_

“Fuck,” he murmured under his breath, clearly dazed by the desperate hunger in her voice.  She ought to have been embarrassed then.  She ought to have been ashamed of her impetuous yearning for him.  But she was not.  Not now, not when nothing made sense anymore except his hands on her.

He was only stunned for a moment, however, before he moved from behind her to the side of the bath.  She groaned when his hands left her but quieted when she met his eyes: his devoted, amorous, expressive eyes. The passion behind them was so intense and imposing, she suddenly felt small and weak meeting his gaze.  She had the urge to look away but subdued it, fighting the thoughts that told her she was unworthy of his eyes and love that set them ablaze.

Tormund leaned toward her, catching her chin in his hand as he pressed his lips to hers.  Brienne closed her eyes and melted into the kiss, her doubt fading away as Tormund’s other hand sunk below the surface of the water to trail down her bare stomach.  She felt the muscles inside of her clench in anticipation as his hand continued lower, grazing over her hip bones and slowly down one thigh.  Gods, _please_.  His fingers lazily traveled up her other thigh and Brienne found herself trembling in a mixture of impatience and need, a bit of the warm water sloshing over the side of bath.

Her silent prayers were answered when he finally found her aching center, slowly pushing his fingers between her folds.  She shuddered when he lightly touched her clit, groaning into Tormund’s mouth as he ever-so-gradually began to build up the pressure of his fingers on her.  Damn him. He was driving her mad, teasing her just as she had teased him.  Brienne tore her lips from his as she pushed her hips up into his hand, seeking more of his touch.  He pulled back slightly as the thrust of her hips caused a little wave of water to spill over the edge of the bath.

His eyes were nearly glowing with mischief as he clucked his tongue at her.  “Now now, Brienne, you needa stay still… or I’ll have to stop,” he scolded with a devilish smirk. “You’re making a mess.”

“You're awful,” she growled, narrowing her eyes at him, even as she found herself taking a breath and stilling herself beneath the water.  She was eager for him to touch her again.  Brienne hated these games he played with her.  At least she kept telling herself that, even as she felt the heat inside of her swell at his naughty teasing.

“Aye, that I am,” he laughed wickedly.  But he lowered his hand to caress her again, his fingers circling her clit with agonizingly perfect strokes. She closed her eyes and fought to remain still, even as the coil of pleasure began to tighten within her.  Brienne sank slowly back into the water, her head resting against the edge of the bath as the wet warmth swirled over her aroused and eager body.   Her hands curled into fists around the rim of the tub, her chest heaving with labored breaths as the tension grew quickly in her body.  She was at his utter mercy and loved it, trusting him completely.   Brienne shamelessly spread her legs wider, wanting Tormund to delve his fingers inside her.  This time she didn’t wait for him to ask her what she wanted.  Instead, she opened her eyes and caught his mischievous stare in her equally devious one.

“Please, Tormund,” she begged between heavy breaths.  “Please touch me... inside.”  She felt the heat burn in her cheeks at her wanton request, but she didn’t care.  She craved his touch too much to care.  She saw his eyes widen as the lust flared within them.  And then suddenly his fingers were plunging inside of her greedy pussy.  Brienne was barely aware of the lewd moan she let out in response, her eyes closing again as she bucked beneath his adept hand.  In what felt like mere seconds, she was on the edge, rapidly approaching her orgasm.  The water spilled from the bath as her hips rocked of their own accord.

“Please,” she begged again, though to what or who, she did not know.  And then she was coming, hard and fast, as if she was afraid her pleasure would slip away before she could find gratification.  She needn’t have worried.  Tormund never would have left her wanting.  

Every muscle in her body trembled with her glorious release, but she did not cry out.  Brienne held her breath, biting down on her bottom lip until the copper taste of her own blood lingered in her mouth.  It was Tormund that moaned, she realized drolly, for his hand had dipped between his legs to rub himself.

“You are so fucking beautiful when you come,” Tormund groaned at her, the look on his face a mixture of reverence and longing as he gazed down at her. Brienne grinned saucily, reaching up with her wet hands to grab his shoulders and pull him closer, making him lean over the side of the bath.  He eagerly obeyed, his hands trailing along her back and dipping below the water to pull her closer to his bare chest.  

Brienne kissed him passionately, her hands sliding to his thick hair and curling into possessive fists.  She loved this man.  She cherished the way he made her feel, both with his touch and his adoring words.  She treasured the warm happiness that spread through her bones in the afterglow of her orgasm.  She needed this.  She needed him.

Brienne ended the kiss slowly, keeping her hands in his hair as she touched her forehead to his. Eyes closed, she whispered, “I love you.”  

There was a pause.

“Are you sure?” Tormund asked softly and Brienne’s eyes flew open in surprise.  He was staring down at her, his brow wrinkled and his eyes openly revealing his uncertainty.

“Of course I am!” she insisted, perplexed by his sudden doubt. She moved her hands to his cheeks, cradling his face as she searched it for understanding.  He searched hers in return, the worry never leaving his eyes.  

“And him… you love him too?”  

A tight, cold feeling of dread clenched in her stomach at his mention of Jaime.  Tormund watched her with bleak eyes as the color rose in her cheeks and she stumbled to find words, _any words_ , to reply.  

“I- I- I don’t know,” Brienne stammered, knowing instantly that what she had managed to say was woefully inadequate.   His face fell and he gently tugged his head from her hands, stepping away from her and the bath.  He reached for the soap and then thrust it out to her, mumbling in a stony voice, “You should finish up before the water cools completely.”  Tormund kept his eyes on the floor, suddenly unable to even look at her.

She numbly took the bar from his hand, not knowing what to say, as he turned from her and stalked over to the fire. Brienne watched him crouch in front of the flames, adding a log and stroking the fire.  His bare back was to her, the light of the blaze highlighting the strong lines of his body. Though he was only half a room away from her, it suddenly felt as though he was a thousand miles away.  Dazed, she slowly washed the remainder of her body.  

A shiver traveled up her spine for the water had indeed cooled.


	34. chapter thirty-four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please,” she cried, realizing it was the second time she had begged him tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY!! I'm on a roll!! Are you ready for more drama? :D
> 
> Thanks to WriterChick for all the great ideas and editing help. Check out her Sansa/Petyr series [The Baelishes](http://archiveofourown.org/series/567308)!

Brienne was trembling from the cold by the time she climbed from the bath. Curling her arms her around her bare stomach, she scampered to the chest of drawers next to the large bed.  Her wet feet left a trail of puddles behind her on the floor. She dug through her clothes until she found what she was a looking for: a robe of thick cotton. She tugged the frock around her tall frame and then made her way to the warmth of the fire, her sopping wet hair dripping down her neck and dampening the fabric at her collar.  

Tormund had dragged one of the wooden chairs in front of the hearth and was sitting there, silently, his eyes never leaving the sparks.  His hands were gripping the armrests so tightly it was causing his knuckles to turn white.  That was the only indication he was upset.  His face, at least the side of it she could see, was grimly stoic.  Despite the fact she was standing a mere foot from him, he made no acknowledgement of her presence. At least he was still here, Brienne found herself thinking somberly, as she waited for the radiating heat of the fire to reach her chilled bones.  

The silence between them was thick and caustic.  It made her nervous and fidgety, and caused her to realize how grievously inept she was at attempting to navigate the situation.  She literally had not a single idea of what to do or say or think or feel.  She was drowning here.  And she knew it.

Turning from the fire, she stalked toward the table. Along with the meal that had been delivered to her room, there was also pitcher of something to drink. Brienne assumed it was mead and was proven right when she poured herself a tankard full and then brought the frothy liquid to her lips. She gulped down the tangy beverage, hoping to gain some liquid courage.  The mead instantly felt heavy and hot in her belly. On a whim, she poured another tankard for Tormund and returned to the fireside.

She held it out to him, saying nothing, and was surprised when he released his death grip from the armrest to take the tankard from her, his head nodding in what looked like appreciation. Brienne was relieved, a least a little, by his acceptance of the token of peace, however insignificant it might have been.  Neither said anything for several minutes, both drinking their mead in silence.  And Brienne found she began to relax, the mead and the fire starting to thaw the fear that lingered like an icy stone in the pit of her stomach.

She loved him.  And he loved her.  That was what was important right now.  That was what mattered, what was true and undeniable and unchanging. She had to make him understand that.

After swallowing the last of the mead in her mug, Brienne took a deep breath and then turned to face him.  Her voice was more wobbly than she intended when she finally managed to murmur his name.

“Tormund.”  

The tankard was inches from his lips, ready for him to take another drink.  But Tormund paused, his hand frozen in mid air.  He was listening, of that she was sure, though he didn’t say anything or raise his eyes to her.  Brienne continued to speak, the words rushing out of her mouth without much foresight, “I’m sorry.  I truly am.  I’ve never been in a situation like this before.  I don’t know what to do. I- I’m sorry.”  

Tormund lowered the mug then and slowly turned his head to look up at her.  His lips were in a thin line, his eyes dark and unreadable.  Brienne looked back, feeling her bottom lip tremble with emotion. She was completely out of her element here.  She moved closer to him, sinking to her knees beside his chair so her eyes were level with his.  She reached out to cover his hand with her own.  She was relieved when she saw his face soften, just slightly, at her touch.

“Please understand, Tormund.  I didn’t mean for this to happen.  I never thought any man would say they loved me… much less two.”

His reaction was instantaneous, his jaw clenching in restrained fury and an inferno raging in his eyes.  Oh fuck.  What had she done?

“He said he loved you?” Tormund seethed.  Gods!  How could she have been so stupid?

“Yes,” she admitted in a hushed voice.

“And what did you say?” he demanded.  Brienne gulped under his intense gaze, her hands starting to feel shaky with uneasiness.

“I didn’t say anything.  I didn’t know what to say,” she whispered, the shame blatant on her tormented face.  

Tormund scowled at her, turning away and pulling his hand away from hers.  He brought the tankard to his lips and downed the remaining mead in a single swallow.  Then he stood abruptly and stomped to the table, hastily refilling the mug and spilling some mead on the table in his rashness. Brienne stood slowly and watched him, seeing the anger ripple over his half-naked body with every rankled movement.

He was furious.   And she was… weary.  She didn’t have the strength for this right now.  Curling into a ball on the floor and sobbing was seeming increasingly tempting as the seconds ticked by.  She deserved it though: his ire.  If she had been in his place, she would have been just as devastated and infuriated as he was.

Brienne was pulled from her self-pitying thoughts by Tormund’s gritty voice.  He was pacing on the other side of the room,  the tankard in one hand and his other hand curled into a fist.

“It seems a little too convenient, don’t you think?” he snarled.  “He loves you now.   _Now!_  After all this time.  The Queen wants his head and he needs a place to hide, and NOW he loves you.  What a fucking cunt!”

Brienne exhaled with fatigue, carefully making her way over to table to deposit her empty mug of mead. “It's not like that,” she murmured, glancing over at him with apprehension.  “You don't know him.”

The fury that sparked in his eyes nearly made her wince. Seven hells! Every time she opened her mouth, she made things worse.

“You're right.  I don't know him,” Tormund roared, turning toward her. “I just know what Jon’s told me. About what he's done, what his family’s done.”  He shook his head, repulsed, though at her or Jaime, she did not know.

Brienne felt sick, her stomach churning and threatening to make her re-experience her supper in the opposite direction. Her hands sought the edge of the table and she leaned her weight against it. There were a dozen replies bouncing around in her head, one of which was to yell back at him that before he had allied with Jon, he had no doubt committed numerous atrocities of his own.  No one's hands were clean. They were in the middle of a war after all.

But she didn't want to fight.  And she certainly didn't want to keep defending Jaime.  A terrible outcome was guaranteed if she persisted in that direction. She wanted to somehow bridge the gulf that had grown between them and return to the warm shelter of his love.  But how?

Tormund had finished another tankard of mead and slammed it down on the table with a loud bang.  Then he turned from her and began to gather up his clothes and things.  Oh no.

Tormund spoke before she could find words of her own, “You need to figure out what the hell you want, Brienne.   _Who_ you want... I can't-” he stopped himself, the pain so evident in his face that Brienne found herself fighting back tears.  They stared at each other for a long moment. And then Tormund shook his head and muttered, “I have to go.”

No. NO! Brienne tore across the bedroom until she was standing in front of him, her hands seizing the tunic he was holding and stopping him from putting it on.

Tormund sighed, looking everywhere but in her eyes.  “Brienne, let go.”

“No,” she growled.

So he let it go, stepping back from her. She pursued, tossing the tunic aside and this time reaching for his hands. He pulled away.  She felt a hot, wet tear roll down her cheek.  He still would not look at her.

“Please,” she cried, realizing it was the second time she had begged him tonight.  The first had been a fun game, begging for the pleasure of his perfect touch.   But this, this was aggravating.  And futile.  He didn't budge.  She pushed on, her growing panic making her impulsive and desperate.

“Tormund, I'm telling you the truth!  I don't know how I feel about him.”  Brienne moved closer to him, her hands seeking out the strong muscles of his shoulders.  He moved away.  She persisted, her grip tightening on him until he relented and remained in her stubborn grasp.  

He was frowning, his eyes lowered, but he didn't try to pull away as she began to speak, her voice thick with earnest emotion, “But _I know_ how I feel about you.  There's no doubt in my mind.”  She paused, moving closer still until her chest touched his. She curled her arms around his stiff body. A tiny bit of hope bloomed in her heart when he didn't try to resist.   

“I love you.  So much,” Brienne choked between the tears that were escaping from her eyes. She held him tighter, dipping her head down to nuzzle into the crook of his neck.  “I won't let you leave me,” she stated with sheer conviction.  “Not now.  Not ever.”

She stood there, unmoving, holding him, her tears leaking on his neck, terrified her words nothing meant to him. But Tormund slowly lifted his arms and curled them around her back, suddenly holding her as snugly as she held him. She let out a cry of relief and lifted her head to find his lips with her own.  She kissed him roughly, forcing every distressed thought from her mind with each crush of her mouth to his.  He kissed her back just as fiercely and Brienne soon found herself trembling against his solid body.

Brienne moved her hands from his shoulders to his waist, pulling him toward her as she stepped back, dragging him toward the bed.  She didn’t want to talk anymore.  She didn’t want to think anymore.  She just wanted him... all over her, inside of her, everywhere.

When she reached the bed, Brienne pushed him forcefully down on the feather mattress.  He fell back without protest, gazing up at her, eyes wide, panting slightly.  She stood above him and slowly tugged the robe off of her, dropping it to the floor.   A look of pure carnal desire appeared on his bearded face at the sight of her completely naked body.  And then she was on top of him, straddling his hips with her stong thighs.  She ran her hands along his brawny chest and claimed his mouth again.  His hands were all over her too: her back, her thighs, her ass. Their mutual lust was a raging fire, frantic and delirious, engulfing them both.

Brienne scratched her nails down his chest, her mouth following after, teasing his nipples with her eager tongue.  She scraped her teeth against his skin and he grunted, though from pain or pleasure, she did not know.  She scooted lower down his enticing body, feeling the stab of his cock against her stomach as he strained against the confines of his trousers.  She explored every plane, every divot, every curve of the muscles of his chest and stomach with her mouth and hands, traveling lower and lower until he was gasping her name.

She knew what he wanted and she wanted nothing more than to give it to him.  Her fingers curled beneath the belt of his trousers and yanked down, his stiff cock springing free.  Instantly, she took as much of him as she could into her hot mouth.  Tormund roared, sitting up, his hands tangling in her hair.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned, falling back against the bed in defeat, as she began to bob her mouth over his rigid cock.  The first time Brienne had tried to please Tormund with her mouth, she had started out slow and timid, gradually gaining confidence in herself and her ability to please him.  This time was entirely different, Brienne’s desperation for him making her bold and merciless in her torment.  His hands slipped from her hair to twist in the sheets below, the muscles in his legs spasming as she licked and sucked and stroked him.  He was getting close.  She could tell.  And it made her utterly voracious.

“Wait. No,” Tormund lamented, sitting up again and catching her cheek with his hand.  She paused the onslaught of her mouth on him and looked up, puzzled.  

“Not like this,” he begged, tugging on her shoulders with a pleading look in his eyes.  She obeyed, despite her own reluctance, crawling back up his body and planting eager kisses as she went.  When her mouth met his, he curled his hands around her body, holding her tightly.  He let out a little grunt and the next thing she knew, he was rolling her over, his knees between hers as her back hit the bed.  Brienne let out a little gasp, startled by his sudden ploy for dominance, as his hands roamed her impatient body.

“My turn,” he growled, before he slid his hands to her inner thighs, pushing them apart, and burying his face between her legs.


	35. chapter thirty-five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh fuck, it felt amazing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like this one! ;D
> 
> As always, thanks to WriterChick for all the great ideas and editing help. Check out her Sansa/Petyr series [The Baelishes](http://archiveofourown.org/series/567308)!
> 
> Here is a random sexy moodboard I made! Enjoy!!
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

Tormund’s hands were on the backs of Brienne’s thighs, pushing her legs open and tilting her hips up, exposing all of her to him.   She was already so wet and ready, he really didn’t need to tease her with his mouth before fucking her.  But he didn’t just want her slick for his cock; he wanted to make her quivering with need, moaning his name, aching for him.  He needed to make her forget everything, _everyone_ , in the world but him. Tormund wanted to claim her, once and for all, as his and his alone.

He reveled in burying his face in her pussy, enjoying it maybe nearly as much as Brienne did.  She tasted so good on his tongue, her short blonde hairs tickling his nose.  Laid out on the bed and exposed to him, she was entirely defenseless against the torment of his mouth.  It made him feel like a goddamn king: how she whimpered and trembled every time he stroked his tongue back and forth along her sex and how she bucked and gasped when he closed his mouth around her clit and sucked.  He could feel the warm wetness of her arousal dampening his bearded chin as it seeped from her.  She was so fucking wet.  Just for him.

He slid one hand down her thigh and closer to her slippery pussy, her shaking leg dropping to his shoulder.  Tormund pulled back slightly, looking down at those perfect, glistening, pink lips as he grazed his fingers along her slit.   Brienne’s pleading blue eyes found his as she moaned with need.  It was a desperate, animalistic sound that made Tormund feel like a fucking animal himself.   He ached to be inside her, his cock throbbing almost painfully from being hard for so long.   But Tormund ignored his needs, focusing solely on stroking her desire.  His fingers glided easily into her as he lowered his mouth to continue to tease her with his tongue.  He vowed to himself that he would make her howl with such ecstasy that the whole castle would hear, specifically a certain southern cunt, and they would all know she was his.

Tormund felt her hands curl into fists in his hair, pulling him closer, as she panted his name.  He tried to ignore the moisture that gathered at the tip of his cock and dripped down his shaft, threatening to release his seed early, before he ever got the chance to plunge himself inside of her. She was just so arousing, mewling and utterly wrecked beneath his expert touch.  But Tormund was controlled enough to hold himself together. He wouldn’t fuck this up. Not now.  Not when it felt like so much was riding on it.

Tormund could feel her leg spasming beneath his hand, the muscles in her stomach tensing, her pussy clenching around his fingers as he worked them in and out of her.  She was nearly there and he delighted in the anticipation of seeing her fall apart in his hands.  He was completely surprised then when suddenly the hands in his hair were pulling him away from her.  

“Wait, no, please,” Brienne panted as she tugged his head up to look in her frenzied eyes.  Her face was flushed, her lips red and swollen from biting them in her lust.  He stared back, in awe of her beauty, slowly ceasing the stroke of his fingers inside of her.

“Tormund, please, I need- ” she begged again, her voice shaky, as her hands moved to cup to his face.  “Gods, I need to come around you!”  

 _He_ almost came right there and had to reach down and grab himself at the base of his cock in an attempt to stave off the urge.  She was too fucking much.  He almost couldn’t stand how sexy she was.  He fought with himself not to lose control, not to just to dive right into her and start pounding away like a damn dog.  Instead, he kicked the rest of his trousers off and rose to his knees.  He moved between her thighs, his hand still on his cock as he rubbed the aching head of it against her drenched entrance.  She shuddered and groaned, her hands gripping the blankets beneath them.

“Are you still sore?” he asked between gritted teeth, his other hand slowly stroking her hip.  She looked surprised at his question, lowering her eyes for a moment, before looking back at him and nodding slowly.  Damn it.  He knew he had been too rough with her the first time.  He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he urged, leaning over Brienne and kissing her deeply as he continued to rub his cock against her.  They were both breathless when he drew back, pushing himself to his knees again.  He put his hands on her hips and gently tilted them up, pulling her thighs over his own.   His thumb circled her clit as he finally began to ease himself inside of her.  Inch by inch, he watched himself disappear within her wet folds.  It was a fucking beautiful sight.  Brienne’s chest heaved as he slid within her, her mouth falling open with every gasping breath. Fighting against his own lust, he held himself still, wanting to give her time to adjust to him.  He could feel her inner walls trembling and clenching around him.  She was so warm and wet and snug on his cock, he prayed to himself that he could hold on.

Hands still on her hips, Tormund pulled back slowly and then eased himself back into her. He did it again, just as gently, watching to see if she winced in pain. But Brienne just trembled beneath him, her wild eyes gazing up at his.   Her brow was furrowed in agonizing pleasure, a glisten of sweat on her forehead.

“Please,“ she moaned, arching her back and pushing herself into him.  She wanted more.  And more he could definitely give her.

“You're quite the little beggar tonight, aren’t you?” he jested in his deep playful voice as he pulled back and then pushed himself inside of her again, this time with more force.  The muscles of her stomach flexed in response and she moaned again. He stilled himself within her and watched her tremble, feeling her inner walls tighten around him again.  The way she gripped him felt fucking incredible.  He could barely think, much less breathe.

“Stop teasing me!” she growled, shaking her head back and forth in her frenzied desire for more of him. “Oh please, Tormund!”

“Aye, my lady,” he purred, as eager to abandon the tantalizing slow pace as much as she was. He was no longer concerned with hurting her as she had shown no signs of discomfort.

Tormund leaned back slightly, taking one of her calves in his hand and hoisting her leg up and over his shoulder. He turned his head to kiss her ankle, his hand traveling down the length of her long, perfect leg.  And then he leaned over her, his weight on his biceps, as he began to thrust himself inside of her in a steady rhythm.  Oh fuck, it felt amazing.  She was just so damn amazing, squeezing him like a vice.  He knew he wasn’t going to last long, but from the way she trembled around him, he doubted she would last much longer either.

Her leg over his shoulder kept her pelvis tilted up and made it easier for him to hit that sweet spot hidden deep within her. And hit it he did. Every time he slid all the way inside of her, Brienne cried out and shook with pure bliss.  Her arms curled around his shoulders, clinging to him, as he continued to rock his hips into her.  He picked up his pace and the obscene sound of his flesh slapping against hers filled the room. Neither of them cared.  They stared into each other's eyes, obsessed with their mutual growing passion, grunting and moaning together with each thrust of his hips.  He knew she was nearly there when her bottom lip began to tremble and her fingernails dug into his back. He could feel her bearing down on his cock and let out a frantic growl.

“Brienne!” he choked, fighting to hold himself back until she came first.  Luckily, he didn’t need to wait long.  Two more thrusts inside of her and suddenly Brienne was coming undone.  She shouted his name, throwing her head back as she convulsed beneath him.  She was so exquisite in the throes of her lust and he relished every moan and cry from her lips.  Tormund kept fucking her as she came; her sopping wet, quivering pussy squeezing around him and causing him to follow after her in mere seconds.  He exploded within her, the pleasure so intense he saw spots in his eyes, every muscle in his body seeming to clench and then go slack all at once.

Tormund clumsily rolled off Brienne and onto his back beside her, panting and shaking with the aftershocks of his orgasm.  His hand fumbled over the bed until he found her hand, threading his fingers between hers as they both waited for their hearts to stop pounding wildly in their chests and their breathing to return to something resembling normal.

She was able to speak first, rolling over to face him and snuggling up against his sweaty body.  “You’re terrible,” she teased, an adorable grin spreading over her lips as her hand caressed his chest.

Tormund laughed, turning his head to plant a soft kiss on her forehead.  “Why exactly?  For driving you crazy with my cock?”  She blushed and scowled at him at the same time.  His laughter only grew and he turned to face her, gathering her in his arms and pulling her snug against him. She came willing, wiggling herself closer to him.

“You loved it,” he mumbled into her hair.  She tilted her head up to look at him, her blue eyes shining like sapphires, full of delight.

“I did,” she admitted, the evidence of her euphoria obvious in her relaxed body and easy smile. “And I love you,” she added in a soft voice, nuzzling closer to him still, “even when you’re a damn tease.”  She chuckled then and Tormund grinned from ear to ear, overcome with joy at her loving goading.

“I love you too,” he beamed, tilting his head down until he found her swollen lips with his own.  He kissed her softly and sweetly, basking in the warm love that surrounded them both.  He held her tight, his fingers slowly trailing up and down the skin of her back, until she pulled her head back from him and yawned sleepily.

“Tired?” he asked and Brienne nodded in response, her eyes droopy with exhaustion.  That was easy to remedy.  Tormund untangled his arms and legs from hers, reaching over the side of the bed and grabbing the robe she had abandoned there. He turned back to Brienne and gently wiped up the mess he had left between her legs. She smiled at him with appreciation, mumbling a thanks between yawns.  

Dropping the robe back on the floor, he playfully ordered, “Get under the furs, woman, before you pass out!”  She rolled her eyes at him, but helped Tormund pull the blankets out from under the both of them.  Brienne curled on her side, letting out a sigh of perfect contentment once she was buried beneath the warmth of the blankets.

“You're going to stay, right?” Brienne murmured, her eyes already closed.

“Of course,” he replied, moving beneath the blankets and wrapping his arms around her again.  “You’re stuck with me.  For now.  Forever,” he affirmed, using the same words she had back at her.  Brienne opened her eyes to gaze at him, a look of pure affection overflowing from her eyes.

“Good,” she declared, wholeheartedly.  And then Brienne cuddled closer, sliding her arms around him, her eyes fluttering closed. Tormund gently rubbed her back until she fell asleep, any remaining worries about her feelings for Jaime fading away as he listened to the steady inhale and exhale of her breathing.  

She was his.  And he was hers.  

Of this, he was certain.


	36. chapter thirty-six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa. This chapter just WOULD NOT END. My apologies for the weird cliffhanger. I just had to end it somewhere.
> 
> The dream sequence was semi-inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L4GrDOOIIbk). I couldn't stop listening to it while I wrote. So you should totally listen to it while you read!!! :D
> 
> As always, thanks to WriterChick for all the great ideas and editing help. Check out her Sansa/Petyr series [The Baelishes](http://archiveofourown.org/series/567308)!

Brienne was completely naked.  The brilliant blue of the sky merged with the vivid sapphire waves, the colors dancing in her eyes.  She could feel the kiss of the sweltering sun on her bare skin as she floated on her back in the idyllic salty water.  She lifted her head, craning her neck and squinting her eyes, to see Jaime standing upon the sandy shore.  The familiar mountain peaks rose behind him, comforting in their steady presence.  Sunlight reflected off his golden armor in piercing flashes of white,  the ivory cloak billowing behind him in the ocean breeze.  Warm wind caressed his golden mane, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other shading his eyes as he gazed out at her.  The sight of him nearly took her breath away.

“Come with me,” she called, bobbing gently in the waters, smiling as she imagined him floating beside her.

“Brienne,” he replied, the hesitation in his voice scraping like coarse sand to her ears.  

She frowned, twisting in the water until she was facing him, the waves lapping at her shoulders as she treaded water with her strong legs.  “Why won’t you ever swim with me?”

“A lion belongs on the shore,” he replied, a look of hopelessness tarnishing his handsome face.

“Belong?” she whispered to the sea, the wind carrying her words away and up into the rapidly darkening sky.  Black clouds swirled above her as the waves began to crash against her bare body, tossing her to and fro.

“Get out of there!” Jaime shouted, wading into the furious water until it crashed at his knees, threatening to topple him over, tugging on his cloak and tearing it from him.  She fought against the tide, fear rising in her chest as she realized she was powerless against it.  Jaime reached for her and their fingers touched, clawing desperately at each other.

“Please,” he whispered, despair in his mossy green eyes.  

But it was too late.  The ocean took her, swallowing her whole.  She felt the water pour over her head, fill her lungs, and burn her eyes.  The more she fought, the more it held her tighter, suffocating her, dragging her down down down into the murky depths. Soon there was nothing but darkness, blackness, emptiness.  She was dying.  She was dead.

And yet…

Her bare feet landed softly on the sandy ground at the bottom of the sea.  She wiggled her toes in the pure white sand, suddenly realizing it was not sand at all.  It was snow.  She looked up to see shimmering ice crystals swirling in the ocean currents, streaking like stars in the night sky.  It was beautiful.  It was breathtaking.  And, she found, she no longer needed to breathe at all.  She felt she ought to be cold in the freezing water, but she wasn’t.  A warm heat radiated out from within her, making her pale skin glow and filling her with a deep sense of peace.  

She wasn’t scared anymore.

A muffled voice called to her, deep and strong, like the ocean itself.

She turned to the sound, yearning for the source.  The current, now serene and helpful, carried her gently towards the voice, the dark water rippling over her naked skin.

“Brienne,” the voice spoke again, “wake up.”  And this time, she recognized the sound.  

It was Tormund.  He was calling for her.  She slowly rose from the fog of her dream, groaning slightly as she was pulled from her slumber.  She felt his calloused hand on her cheek first, and then the soft warmth of the blankets around her, as she came back to reality.  The dream faded away, leaving nothing behind but a few scattered memories and a cozy feeling of serenity.  

“Please tell me it’s not morning,” Brienne grumbled, her eyes remaining closed, her whole body still heavy with exhaustion.  She felt like she had barely slept at all.

There was a chuckle.  “No, not yet,” Tormund’s baritone voice replied.  “You can go right back to sleep. But first you have to sit up.”  

Brienne sighed, cracking one eye open.  There was Tormund, leaning over her, his sparkling eyes  greeting her.  Despite her grumpiness at being woken up, she couldn’t help but smile at his cheery face.

“Fine,” she moaned goodnaturedly, pushing herself up to a sitting position and scooting back against the headboard, the blankets falling to her lap and exposing her bare chest.  She rubbed her eyes and then looked around the room, noticing that Tormund had blown out most of the candles.  There was only the light of the fire and the candle on her nightstand now.  He had tidied up too, their clothes draped across the back of one of the wooden chairs.  He was so damn sweet.

“Tormund?” she said softly, looking over at him, as he stood completely naked as the day he born beside the bed.  The light of the fire flickered across the wide planes of his body as she stared at him.   He winked at her and then handed her a mug filled with steaming liquid.  

“Drink,” he urged.

Brienne let her eyes pass once more over his rugged body, before taking the cup and bringing it to her lips.  She was too sleepy to bother to ask what was it she was about to drink.  She trusted him.  It didn’t matter.  Brienne tilted her head back, draining the contents into her mouth in one large gulp.  She instantly regretted it. The warm liquid was horrendously bitter and she nearly gagged on the rancid taste.  She had to fight with herself to swallow.  Was this some new terrible spirit he had concocted?  It was far worse that the fermented goat milk.

“What the bloody hell was that?” she growled, reaching for the tankard in Tormund’s hand to wash away the harsh taste in her mouth.  He just stared at her, a curious look in his eyes, as she snatched the mead from him and drank until the disgusting taste was no longer on her tongue.  She held out the tankard when she was finished.

“How… how have you not tasted it?” he asked in a quiet voice, his eyebrows pulling together in puzzled thought as he took the tankard from her.  

Brienne did not understand and was growing annoyed that he had answered her question with one of his own.  “Tormund,” she fumed, glaring at him as she dropped the empty cup, no longer filled with the mysterious and vile drink, on the nightstand.  “What _was_ that?”

“Moon tea, Brienne,” he admitted with a exhale, continuing slowly. “I found it in your pants pocket when I was picking up.  I figured you’d want to drink it now.  I thought- I thought you’d know what it was… by the taste...”  Brienne froze, staring at him with wide, shocked eyes, as his voice trailed off.  He looked apprehensive.  She felt like she was back in her dream, drowning.

Moon tea.

It was moon tea.

She had never tasted it before… because she had never drank it before.

Oh gods no.

Brienne let out a strangled sound of sheer horror, her hands coming up to cover her face.  “I forgot!  I forgot!  I forgot!” she blubbered into her hands.  “Oh fuck!  I forgot!”  How had she been so stupid?  How could she have forgotten? A bastard child was the last thing in the world that she wanted.  How would she fight with a child on her hip?  Oh gods, how would she even care for it?  There was not a single maternal bone in her body.  Brienne’s chest suddenly felt too tight, constricting painfully around her lungs.  She gasped in short, frantic breaths, feeling her panic spinning out of control.  

Tormund’s hands captured her shoulders, holding her secure.  “Breathe,” he demanded.  She dropped her quivering hands from her face to look at him, seeing in his eyes a tenacity that she did not currently possess.  She reached out to grip his arms, watching him as he breathed in slowly and then exhaled.  She tried to mimic him, forcing herself to take slow even breaths to calm the thunderous beat of her heart in her chest.  Brienne did not know how long she clung to him, but eventually she felt the tension inside of her lesson and her anxiety recede to something bearable.

She slowly let go of her iron grip on him, slumping back against the headboard and squeezing her eyes shut.  “I can’t be pregnant,” she whispered.

“I know,” he replied.  “You won’t be.  You aren’t.”  Brienne nodded, turning her head to look at him.  Concern marred his face as he gazed at her.  “You drank the moon tea.  It will work,” he murmured, reaching out to take her hand in his.

“And if it doesn’t?” she squeaked, staring down at their entwined hands.  “Winter is here.  We’re in the middle of war.  Tormund, I can’t-”

“The moon tea will work,” he repeated, his voice resolute.  She felt the bed shift as he climbed on to it next to her, curling his arms around her and pulling her against his side.  “And if it doesn’t, there are other things.  Stronger things.  Plenty of free folk women have found themselves with child when they didn’t want to be.  It’ll be alright, Brienne. I promise.”  Tormund kissed her forehead.  She rested her head against his strong chest, gradually letting herself believe him.  It _would_ be alright. Even if what he was promising, he really couldn’t promise. She was comforted nonetheless.  He held her snug to him and Brienne felt herself ease against his solid body.

“When are you due to bleed?” he asked after a moment of quiet had passed.

“W-what?” Brienne stammered, feeling her cheeks blush with embarrassment.  Growing up, the septa had taught her to never speak of such things in the presence of a man unless, of course, in reference to her first flowering and therefore her eligibility for marriage.

Tormund’s voice sounded amused when he spoke, “How else will we know?  If you bleed, you’re fine.  If not… well, then we’ll deal with it.”  The way he talked about her having her blood, so matter of fact, made Brienne feel flustered.  He chuckled as she tensed in his arms.  “You forget Brienne, I have two daughters.”  

In her worry, she _had_ somehow forgotten that.  Of course he would know about such things.  Brienne pulled back slightly, sitting up to look in his eyes.  Tormund looked back, a warm kindness on his face.  How was it that he continued to surprise her with his tenderness and understanding?  She had never in her entire life met a man anything like him.  She reached out to graze her fingers along his scruffy cheek.  “Is the moon still waning?” she inquired in a quiet voice.

“Aye, just a sliver of the crescent left,” he replied, his head tilting into her hand.

“Three or four days then,” she mumbled, cheeks now bright red at her confession of when her moonblood would come. Hopefully.

“There,” he said with a dashing grin, “Was that so hard?”

She saw the mischievous gleam spark in his eyes a second too late.  He tackled her, his strong arms seizing her and forcing her onto her back on the bed.  Before she could protest, or say anything at all, his lips touched hers, soft and comforting.  She felt the familiar weight of him settle between her thighs and, in reflex, she reached her arms up and wrapped them around his shoulders.  Tormund’s  lips moved to her jaw then down her neck, leaving a little trail of warm kisses on her skin, his hands sliding along her waist and hips.

“Mmmm,” she sighed, delighting in his gentle touch, each kiss making her feel a little more like herself.  Brienne trailed her fingers up and down his muscular back, eventually bringing them to the back of his neck.  Her fingers brushed through his copper locks, her mind wandering just like his hands and mouth over her naked body.

“Can you imagine it though?  Me as a mother?”  Brienne scoffed bitterly.  “I would be the worst mother.”  Tormund paused, ceasing his onslaught of kisses on her chest to tilt his head up and look at her, his brow furrowed.

“Bullshit!” he protested.

“What!?” Brienne laughed, though not from humor but from the sheer absurdity of his objection.  He sat up further, pushing himself up on his forearms so he could stare into her eyes, his chest hair tickling her bare breasts.  

His voice was heartfelt and impassioned.  “You would be the best kind of mother, Brienne.  Strong and fierce and protective, like a mama bear. And you’d teach them to fight!  Just look at Pod.”

“Pod?” Brienne snorted.  What in seven hells was he talking about? A mama bear? Tormund was being completely ludicrous.  She reached up to cradled his face in her hands, unable to stop herself from chuckling again.  “Tormund,” she laughed sardonically, shaking her head at him.

“Aye, Pod.” he grumbled, pressing on, staring down at her with a stubborn light in his eyes.  “He was practically a babe when he ‘came your squire.  At least that’s how he tells it.  He couldn’t skin a rabbit or ride a horse or hold up a sword.”  Tormund took a breath, nuzzling his nose against her forehead, his voice lowering. “Now look at him.  Nearly a respectable fighter.”

“Nearly?” Brienne snickered, somewhat miffed.  “I’ve only been training him for _months._  Doesn’t that prove my point more than yours?” Tormund just growled at her, nipping along her neck, his hands sliding along her arms until they came to her wrists, pinning her to the bed below.  Brienne inhaled sharply, aroused to find herself trapped beneath him.  He wasn’t playing fair.

“Our children would be born fighters,” he grunted in her ear, his breath hot against her neck.  “Fearless.  Tough.  They’d make us proud.”  He kissed her then, his lips touching the pulse at her throat before his teeth grazed along her skin.

Brienne was shocked by his words, unable to do anything but widen her eyes.  Their children?  As in more than one?   As in them purposefully having children together? Bloody hell.  The way he was talking about it, about her as a mother… _oh damn_.  This wasn’t the first time he had considered it, was it? Tormund had pondered having children with her.  She could not believe it.  And she knew not what to think about it. About _any_ of it.

“Tormund?” she breathed, mind reeling, but still wanting to know if her hunch was correct.  Her voice was tentative, barely above a whisper, “You've thought about us having children before, haven't you?”  

Nothing happened for a moment, the question hanging heavy in the air between them.  And then he loosened his grip on her wrists, sitting up slightly to meet her eyes.  He said not a word.  They stared at each other and, to her utter astonishment, a reddish hue darkened his cheeks.


	37. chapter thirty-seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s just fucking,” she retorted, instantly on the defensive as she did, in fact, push his hand away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so, I'm sorry sorry sorry!! I know it's been like forever since I posted and I really hope you all are still with me on this. December is just a crazy busy month for me and I got out of the habit of writing. So even when I had some time to write, it was SO hard to get back into the rhythm and produce stuff that wasn't total shit. I hope the wait was worth it for this chapter though. So many emotions!!
> 
> I wasn't a TOTAL slacker though. I started entertaining myself making moodboards for my story and chapters on tumblr. Follow me on tumblr at [Faradaze](https://fara-daze.tumblr.com/). I want to follow you all too!!
> 
> Here's a [moodboard](https://fara-daze.tumblr.com/post/154272850746/trying-my-hand-at-moodboards-this-one-is-for-the) for the last chapter/this chapter.
> 
> And a random [sexy one](https://fara-daze.tumblr.com/post/154311721106/brienne-and-tormunds-sex-life-is-better-than)! LOL.
> 
> And I just made this one for [Munda](https://fara-daze.tumblr.com/post/155122970091/meet-munda-giantsbane-she-is-tormunds-spunky)! I hope you find this as entertaining as I do!
> 
> A HUGE thanks to WriterChick for helping me keep writing and totally finish this chapter. If it wasn't for her, seriously, none of this would be possible. Don't forget to check out her Sansa/Petyr series [The Baelishes](http://archiveofourown.org/series/567308)!
> 
> HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

Brienne could not believe it.  She was stunned, and somewhat amused, that the rough, bawdy man who delighted in doing every raunchy thing he could to make _her_ cheeks pink, was somehow flustered by her question.  He was adorable in his embarrassment and Brienne found the role reversal enticing.  She fought the urge to tackle him onto his back and hold him to the bed, just as he had done to her, as she pressed her lips to his.  But first, she wanted him to answer her question.

Instead, she tugged her hands from his and sat up.  He did too and soon they were sitting face to face on the bed, her thighs over his and her legs around him.  She cupped his flushed face between her palms.  In a warm, teasing voice, she stated, “You’re blushing, Tormund.”

“Am I?” he grinned, just the slightest hint of chagrin in his eyes, as he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer to him. “You would know.  You’re pretty damn good at it,” he quipped.

She cocked an eyebrow at him, mildly miffed, but fully aware that he was trying to shift the focus away from the pink hue on his cheeks.  She was having none of it.  He looked away and then back at her, a little snippet of laughter escaping his lips.  Seconds later, he was laughing heartily, his broad chest rumbling against her own.

When she did not immediately join in his humor, a devilish glint appeared in Tormund’s eyes.  The next thing she knew, he was tickling his fingers on the underside of her arms, causing her gasp and squirm and giggle.  She had forgotten that he had learned of her weakness when he had undressed her.  Brienne playfully wrestled with him, pulling his hands away from her and trying to keep her arms at her sides to prevent him from being able to tickle her further.  But he was relentless and strong and her laughter made her muscles feel wobbly and weak.  She was reduced to a laughing, breathless mess begging him to stop.  Damn him.

Tormund stopped tickling at her plea, pulling her snug to his chest, and kissing her deeply.  She was putty in his hands, melting into the feeling of his hot mouth on hers.  He was simply intoxicating.  But he soon pulled back, meeting her eyes.  She was intrigued to see a sincere look settle on his face.

“Of course I’ve thought about having children with you,” he admitted, any trace of embarrassment gone from his cheeks as he owned up to the truth.  “I’ve wanted to make ya fat with my babies since the first time I saw you.”  His hand caressed her lean stomach and that familiar, lusty look sparked in his eyes.

Brienne was shocked, her mouth falling open at his blatant confession.

“I’ll never forget it,” Tormund breathed, awe in his eyes as he recalled that fateful day Brienne had arrived at Castle Black.  He reached up to slide his hand along her cheek, his coarse fingers gentle on her rapidly reddening skin.   

“You were the most incredible woman I’d ever seen,” he raved.  “Riding tall on that horse, a look in your eyes like nothing in the world could stand in your way.  You were so perfect.”  Tormund chuckled then, looking sheepish, “I was a fucking mess.  I couldn’t even think.  And you just glared at me, gripping your sword.  It made me want you more.”  Brienne gaped at him, his earnest recollection of his instant devotion to her doing nothing to help her recover from her surprise.  She was astounded.

“I had to have you,” he continued, candidly.  “I don’t think I’d ever wanted anyone as much as I wanted you, Brienne.”  A wry smile appeared on his lips as he confessed,  “I was gonna try an steal you that very night, but Jon talked me out of it.  I think he was worried you would beat the fucking shit outta me, and I probably woulda let ya.”  He grinned as his hand on her cheek moved to the back of her neck, pulling her gently toward him so he could kiss her again. This time, Brienne was barely aware of his touch, her mind reeling from all that he had just told her.

He had wanted her.  Instantaneously.  One look, and he had wanted her.  It was lunacy.  

And the most romantic thing Brienne had ever heard.  

This wasn’t something that happened to women like her.   But here it was, happening.  The proof was in the soft touch of his lips to hers and the stroke of his hand on the nape of her neck. Every adoring caress and kind word and enamored gaze was an irrefutable declaration of his love for her.

“You alright?” Tormund said tenderly, giving her a quizzical look.  Lost in her own thoughts, she hadn’t even noticed the kiss ending.  And she didn’t know how long he’d been studying her before his question brought her back to the moment.   Brienne nodded in reply, dazed as she pushed herself forward to be closer to him.

“No one had ever looked at me like that before,” Brienne admitted, somewhat embarrassed, lowering her eyes to stare at the nearly healed wound on his bicep.

“Thank the gods,” Tormund growled.  Brienne pulled her eyes back up to look at him, surprised by his gruff words.  He just stared at her, shaking his head along with his words.  “If you had already sworn yourself to someone... If you’d been married…”  Tormund’s voice trailed off, the worried furrow of his eyebrows revealing what he did not say.  It would have devastated him, no doubt, if he couldn’t have been with her.

“You would have given up then?” Brienne asked, unable to stop herself.  Her voice was teasing but curious as she added, “If I’d been betrothed to another?”

“Betrothed?  No!” Tormund exclaimed, a hungry fire sparking in his eyes.  “A betrothal is just an unfulfilled promise.  It doesn’t mean shit.   And it wouldn’t have stopped me.”  His hand on her hip gripped possessively.  She chuckled, utterly amazed by his fervor for her.

“And if I’d been married?  Would you have looked the other way then?”

It was Tormund’s turn to laugh. “Oh, I still woulda looked,” he asserted, leaning forward to  plant an eager kiss on her collarbone, his arms tightening around her.  His mouth was warm on her skin and Brienne let out a murmur of enjoyment.  “But I wouldn’t have went after ya,” he admitted, his solemn eyes meeting hers again.  “I respect marriage vows.”

She was caught off guard by his answer and the grave look on his face.  It was suddenly so apparent to her how much he must have loved his wife, how much being married to her meant to him.  He wanted it all again: a wife, more children. He wanted what he had lost.  And it seemed as though he wanted it with her.  Brienne felt a lump of anxiety form in her throat.  

“Tormund,” she whispered, her voice tight with emotion, “It’s been years since I’ve even considered the idea of marriage.  I have to be honest with you.”  She paused, taking a deep breath for courage.  “It’s not really something I want...”  Her words probably sounded like they were coming out of nowhere, but she felt compelled to express herself, lest he got some crazy ideas about marrying her in his head.

To her dismay, Tormund looked utterly crestfallen.  Her assumptions had been correct.  She did not know what to do.  Brienne felt so ill-prepared for the subject, the emotions, and the hulking man in front of her that wore disappointment as easily as she wore her armor.  This moment was not one that Brienne ever thought she'd be experiencing.  Who would have even imagined it?  Brienne the Beauty disappointing a man by shutting down the idea of marriage before he had even truly brought it up.  The lunacy of this whole conversation was only increasing with every passing second.

“I know,” he muttered, a bitter frown pulling on his lips.  “You highborns only marry to secure alliances and increase your power.  And you only have children to carry on your name. I can't help you do either.”  He scowled and Brienne felt her cheeks warm again, only this time it was out of anger and not embarrassment.

“That’s not fair,” she retorted.

“Isn’t it?” he growled back, “Why not?”  He met her cold stare with a fiery challenge in his eyes.  Her ire only grew at his reply.  Why was he being so pigheaded?  She had told him of the times she had been close to marriage before.  It had been devastating for her.   She would never make a good wife.  She had learned that the hard way at the mere age of ten and two.  Brienne thought he had understood.

“Because it’s not!” she snarled as she began unwrapping her arms from around him and pulling away.  “Not wanting to marry has nothing to do being highborn.  It’s about me… _being me._   I don’t want to be someone’s wife.  Not yours!  Not anyone's!”  Her voice broke on that last word, revealing the hurt that was buried beneath her anger.  She hated herself for that.  Ashamed at herself and aggravated with him, she scooted back on the bed and away from him.

He was watching her, she was sure of it, for she could feel his eyes heavy on her.  But he didn’t stop her from moving away.  At least, not at first. She rested her back on the headboard of the bed, her arms curled defiantly over her chest and her eyes looking anywhere but at him.  She heard the bed creak as he moved toward her.   

“Brienne,” he said, his voice tentative, as he reached out to seize her hand and entwine his fingers with hers.  She briefly considered resisting his touch.  Pulling away and avoiding contact had always been her strategy for protecting herself in the past.  But she also knew that Tormund had just laid his heart bare for her and she had swiftly and soundly rejected him.  She wasn’t so furious at him that she yearned to hurt him further and so she kept her fingers snug around his.  And she begrudgingly raised her head to meet his eyes.

His voice was steady as he spoke, his eyes searching her face, “You love me enough to give me your maidenhead, but not enough to marry me?” She felt a tightness in her chest at his words and the accusation that lingered beneath the surface.  What was he insinuating?  That she should not have slept with him?  Or that now that she had, she owed him marriage?

“It’s just fucking,” she retorted, instantly on the defensive as she did, in fact, push his hand away. “Isn’t that what you wildlings always say?” Tormund recoiled as if he had been slapped, sparks of anger flashing in his eyes.

“Oh so it’s not fair to compare you to other highborns, but it’s just fine to lump all of us freefolk together?” he spat back.  Then Tormund sighed, exasperated, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck.  “Fuck!” he groaned, “I don’t want to fight with you!”

“Then what _do_ you want?” she demanded flippantly.

“I want you, Brienne,” he muttered as he moved closer to her on the bed.   His eyes never left hers as his hands moved to grip her biceps.  “I want you to be mine, _all mine_.  And I want to be yours.  From now until we’re buried in ground.  I want to vow it, in front of the old Gods and your newfangled ones, in front of everyone. Is that so fucking terrible?”  

Once again, Brienne was stunned by his words.  He wanted make a vow, to her, to _only_ her.  Never in her life had anyone wanted to make a vow to her. Brienne felt her pulse pounding wildly in her chest as she considered his words.  It was always the other way around, it was always her pledging her life for another's.  Now he wanted to be the one to pledge his life to hers.

She had never looked at marriage that way.  It wasn’t like that in the south.  Marriage was a contract, an agreement made by fathers behind closed doors, planning out the lives of their children in order to best suit their own selfish gains.  And often it was for power; Tormund was right about that.  

But to Tormund, she suddenly understood, marriage wasn’t about finding some good and proper wife to lord over.  It wasn’t about dowries or birth rights or any of that.  It was about keeping a promise to someone.  And that was something that made perfect, beautiful sense to her. Regardless of the idea of actually marrying him, Tormund’s desire to forever bind himself to her was immediately arousing to her.

“Tormund,” she murmured, her voice trembling slightly with emotion.

“I know. You don't want to hear it,” he grumbled, assuming she was scolding him for his earnest words.  "Even though it's fucking true."

“No,” she whispered, her voice lowering seductively.  His eyes grew large at her reply.  It was his turn to be shocked.

Brienne pushed him back onto the bed, her hands firm on his robust chest.  He went willingly, undoubtedly seeing the desire peak in her eyes. She knew it was blatant on her face: how much she suddenly wanted him, needed him, lusted for him.  His words had triggered a passion inside of her that only he could quench.  Brienne leaned over him until his coarse chest hair tickled her nipples, her hands gripping the sides of his scruffy face. Her mouth was hungry when she pressed it to his, a wet warmth growing between her legs as her tongue invaded his mouth.  She felt his hands slide up her thighs, one moving lower to cup her ass while the other moved higher, fingers trailing along her spine until they came to rest on her shoulder, holding her to him.  

With her thighs straddling his hips, she slowly rubbed herself against his rapidly hardening cock.  He moaned and she did to, savoring the tease of him as he grew firm against her eager clit.  Oh gods.  He felt so good, hard and thick against her.  And she couldn‘t stop herself from remembering his amazing words as he described how starstruck he had become at first sight of her.  She wanted, no _needed_ , to hear him say it again.

Breathless, Brienne tugged her lips from his to stare into his yearning eyes.  “Tell me again.  Tell me about the first time you saw me.”  Tormund was breathing heavy too, but he nodded zealously, licking his lips before he complied.

“I was in the yard, sharpening my sword, when I heard the horn blow,” he murmured, his eyes intense as he gazed up at her.  Brienne continued to grind against him, driving them both mad. The movement of her hips only hinted at the pleasure to come.  His voice was gruff and deep as he continued.  “You were the first one through the gate.  I’d never seen anyone like you.  I couldn’t look away.”

He couldn’t then, and he couldn’t seem to now, his eyes glued to hers as Brienne bit her bottom lip, feeling herself become increasingly wet at his words.  She had never felt so desired.  She moved one hand to the bed as she lifted her hips up to reach between them and stroke her other hand up and down the length of Tormund’s cock.  He sucked in an excited breath, appearing to lose his train of thought at her touch.  

“You wanted me,” she urged him to continue, feeling as though she would never tire of hearing him talk like that about her.

“Aye,” Tormund moaned, his hands moving to grip her hips. “From the first moment I saw you, I wanted you.  I woulda done anything to have you.”  He was looking up at her with such unyielding adoration that Brienne was overcome with an frenzied need for him.  He didn’t cease his perfect words, growling, “You were so beautiful,” as she finally guided him to her wet pussy.  She greedily took all of him inside of her with one swift push of her hips.  They both shuddered and gasped, overwhelmed by the sheer ecstasy of how perfectly they fit together.

She leaned back over him, her hands holding his face as her mouth captured his again.   His hands moved lower to caress her ass as she rocked herself against him.  Brienne pressed her forehead to his, never ceasing the sway of her hips, as she panted, “Say it again.”

“You. Are. Fucking. Beautiful!” he grunted, punctuating each word with the thrust of his pelvis. He drove himself deeper into her, filling her with a pleasure that was more than physical.  It was exquisite; _he_ was exquisite, driving her wild with the endless euphoria of his words and his body.  Brienne found herself clinging to him, her hands gripping his shoulders and her chest pressed against his.  Her cheek scratched against his bearded one as she let out a blissful moan.


	38. chapter thirty-eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had left him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how'd I do with this chapter? I'm venturing into new territory here. Comments and critiques always appreciated. 
> 
> Lol, on a side note, what is the most hilarious, outlandish way Jaime can find out about Brienne and Tormund? What can you come up? Make me laugh!!
> 
> Thanks to WriterChick for awesome brainstorming and editing. Don't forget to check out her Sansa/Petyr series [The Baelishes](http://archiveofourown.org/series/567308)!

His mouth was a desert: dry and parched and painfully scratchy.  He felt like he had slept for days.  Damn that milk of the poppy!  He never would have taken it if she hadn’t begged him to, tears in her eyes at the sight of him writhing in pain and choking back screams as the maester cleaned his wound with boiling wine.  He would have been able to withstand the agony of it, but he was helpless against the horror on her face and her desperate pleas.  And so he had relented, for her sake.

Jaime tugged his eyes open, surprised by the heavy darkness in the room.  He had not a clue what time it was, what day it was, how long he had been lying in the godforsaken bed.  A meager light emanated from the glowing embers in the fireplace, casting faint shadows in the sparse room. He barely recognized his surroundings.  It had all been such a delirious blur since he had arrived at Winterfell.  Well, everything except for her...

“Brienne?” he said hoarsely, rolling over and instinctively knowing she would be there, in the chair beside the bed.  She hadn’t left his side once.  It was the only thing that had been constant in his feverous confusion: her steady, comforting presence.  Everytime he called for her, she was there with a soothing hand on his forehead, a cool drink of water, a worried but resolute look in her crystal blue eyes.

But he looked to the chair where she always sat and found it empty.  Hastily, his eyes scanned the dark room that had suddenly become oppressive in its large, silent, desertedness.  Brienne was nowhere to be found.

He was alone.  

Swallowing hard, he pushed down the swelling of disappointment that rose, unwanted and overwhelming, in his parched throat.

She had left him.

He shoved the thought from his head.  How pathetic of him.  Surely, she had only stepped out for a moment.  There was no need to become dismayed over it. Brienne deserved a break from caring for his incoherent, feeble self.  Who could blame her for that?  He wasn’t _that_ selfish.

Jaime pushed himself up on his elbow, the wound on his stomach screaming in protest.  Despite the pain, for the first time in weeks, his head felt clear.  The mental fog of his infection had finally receded and he felt he could think coherently again.  At least somewhat, the fuzziness of the milk of the poppy still lingered on the edges of his mind.  He fumbled for the pitcher on the nightstand, his muscles weak but no longer so frail that he couldn’t pour himself a cup of water and bring it to his lips.  He gulped it down, feeling the painful dryness in his mouth subside. He poured himself another glass and drank heartily, the water spilling down his stubbly chin in his haste.  It tasted like heaven.

Once his thirst was quenched, he dropped the cup on the nightstand and lay back on the bed to catch his breath.  It was ridiculous that the slightest physical exertion left him panting and weak.  He was sick and tired of feeling sick and tired.  

Irritated with himself, Jaime pushed down the blankets covering him. He peered at the bandage on his stomach.  He noticed, offhandedly, that he was not wearing the breeches he had rode into Winterfell in.  Someone had undressed him, changed his clothes, and, from the lack of dirt on his body, bathed him. He tried, with limited success,  to dismiss the vexing thought of being completely naked and helpless in someone's hands.  Had Brienne been there? Or just the grizzled maester with the help of some servants?  He couldn’t decide what was more bothersome. But he certainly knew who he trusted more.

Impatiently, he tugged at the wrappings around his torso, quickly growing frustrated at the difficulty of trying to untie them with only one hand. He succeeded eventually, cursing under his breath, as he tugged the fabric from his skin.  It wasn’t stained, not with blood or pus or any such thing.  That was a good sign.  So was the lack of pungent odor that he had nearly gotten used to in the weeks he had helplessly watched the wound become infected during his journey to Winterfell.  He hadn’t had money for a  healer or the confidence he wouldn't be recognized if he ventured into a town for medicine.  So he had watched the wound redden and ooze and swell with sickness.  It was a bloody miracle he had made it here.

Jaime could hardly see in the dim light, scrutinising the wound with concerned eyes and cautious fingers.   But what he could make out left him feeling relieved and, gods forbid, hopeful.  It was healing.  He was healing.  The maester’s putrid concoctions and boiling wine and poultices had saved his life.  He was one lucky bastard.  How many times had he flirted with death and lived to tell of it?  Too many, that was for certain.

Laying back on the bed, he stared up at the dim stone ceiling and let himself imagine being strong and healthy and _himself_ again.  It was a moronic dream.  He didn’t know who he was anymore.  Certainly the Lannister name was no longer fitting.  He had betrayed his family, at least what sadistic shambles was left of it.  It had all become so sick and twisted.   _She_ had become sick and twisted.  Jaime closed his eyes, rubbing his hand along his forehead and then tightening forcibly, wishing he could squeeze the memory of her anguished scream from his mind.  He wasn’t _that_ lucky.  Those final desperate memories of Cersei would surely haunt him till the day he died.

The grumble of his stomach pulled him from his self-defeating thoughts.  Struggling to sit up again, he scoured the room, hoping to see some remnants of something to eat on the wooden table to the left of the bed.  No such luck.  And at this late hour, it would probably be easier to get a fresh pot to piss in than a hot meal from the kitchen.  His stomach gurgled again and he wondered how long it had been since he had eaten. He had some vague memories of Brienne gently propping his head up while she patiently spooned him some warm broth.

 _Brienne_.

Where was she?  He didn’t like that she wasn’t here.  She was the only ally he had in Winterfell, maybe in all of Westeros.  And he wanted to talk with her, to take her hand in his and feel that she was truly there, they were really together, now that his mind was healthy enough to think clearly.  It hadn’t been his plan to just blurt out his feelings for her like a eager, idiotic boy.   But his fevered mind couldn’t stop itself.  He was so elated to see her.  He had almost convinced himself that he never would again.

Damn it.  Why wasn’t she by his side?  Suppose they weren’t allowing her to see him anymore? How would he ever know if he was trapped in the room and she was forbidden from visiting him?   Oh, he wanted her here.  It was a visceral feeling.  He knew he didn’t deserve her care and affection, but, seven hells, he craved it.  She was the only thing that made sense in his life anymore.  She was the only good, pure thing left in this fucked up, violent world.

Feeling spurned on by his frustration at Brienne’s absence, Jaime moved himself to the edge of the bed and dropped his legs over the side.  His feet touched the frigid stone and a shiver shot up his spine.  Jaime cursed again.  Pulling one of the blankets from the bed, he wrapped it around his bare shoulders and pushed himself to his feet.  He wobbled for a moment, unsure if his shaky legs would hold him.  He quickly grew more confident when he didn’t immediately fall to the floor.  Shuffling carefully, he slowly made his way to the door.

Maybe the guards on the other side would know of Brienne’s whereabouts, not that he particularly wanted to ask.  He would undoubtedly have to listen to their crude remarks about her and he was far too weak to defend her honor at the present moment.  At the very least, perhaps he could convince them to bring him something to eat. Jaime struggled to keep the blanket around his shoulders and open the door with only one hand.  He recalled that the guards, on Jon’s orders, had taken his armor and sword and golden hand from him when he had first arrived at Winterfell.  He wondered if he would ever see any of it again.  It was mind boggling to him that Eddard Stark’s bastard was now the King in the North.  This only further proved that the whole world had gone mad.

Finally, he managed to tug the door open.  The hallway was bright and he squinted in the light, hearing the brutish laughter of the three northerners tasked with guarding him.  They weren’t laughing at him though.  He watched them with narrowed eyes, leaning against the doorframe for support.  One of them shushed the others with the wave of his hand and they all fell into a barely restrained silence.  Jaime wondered what the hell they were listening for.  That is, until he heard it too: the needy groans and lustful moans of a man and woman in the throes of passion echoing faintly through the stone castle.

The guards’ resolve crumbled into uproarious laughter.  Jaime found himself chuckling too.  It sounded like someone was having a damn good time.

“How many times is that that now?  Four?” the youngest looking of the guards asked once their laughter had slowed, a bewildered but impressed expression on his face.

“Five,” the tallest of the guards insisted, wiping the tears from his eyes, before a snarky smile appeared on his thin lips.  “Pay up!”

The third guard, with a wide bandage on his obviously broken and bruised nose, grumbled to himself before digging in his pockets and pulling out a coin purse.  He begrudgingly passed to the other guard, who took it with gusto, shaking it to jingle the metal coins inside.

“Never bet against a Glover,” he jeered.  

The broken-nosed guard scowled before grunting, “That wildling is a fucking beast.”  Jaime’s ears perked up at that.  So the rumors were true. Jon had let wildlings through the wall.  The bastard had lost his mind.

“He’s fucking a beast, alright!” the other guard replied, and all three guards broke into rancorous laughter again.

Jaime frowned, confused by their words, and far more interested in inquiring about a meal, his rumbling stomach refusing to let him forget his hunger pangs.  As luck would have it, the youngest of the guards finally noticed him, nodding urgently to the other two, who quickly turned to face him.

“Look who's finally awake,” bandage-face said with a smirk.  “Sleep well?” he taunted.

Jaime pretended as though the man’s words weren't laced with scorn.  “Quite well, actually,” he retorted with a smarmy smile.  “How kind of you to inquire.”    Jaime held in a laugh at the annoyed grimace that appeared on the guard’s bruised face.  

“I am feeling a bit peckish though,” he continued in the same self-satisfied tone.  “Perhaps you could make yourself useful and find me something to eat?”  The guard bristled and probably would have shot off and smacked him in the face, if the taller guard hadn’t reached a hand up to hold him back.

Jaime did laugh this time, the thought dawning on him that maybe he was more under the influence of the milk of the poppy than he realized.  

The taller guard stepped forward, advancing on Jaime as he snapped, “Get back in your room, Kingslayer.”

“I never left my room,” he protested smugly, but stepped back anyway to avoid being shoved back by the guard.  He glared at Jaime as he reached for the door and yanked in shut, the angry sound of wood hitting stone reverberating in the room.  Jaime sighed.

“Ammett!” he heard the guard bark.  “Go tell the King the traitor is awake.”  


	39. chapter thirty-nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At least the bastard had brought him some food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank all those readers out there that are still hanging on with me! I know I've been struggling to write lately and my posts have been few and far between. I feel like things are on the uptick though and hopefully I'll get back on a more consistent schedule. That said, the only reason this chapter even materialized is because of WriterChick agreeing to motivate the HELL out of me. Apparently, I need the threat of being forced to post lovey dovey pictures of Jaime and Brienne on my tumblr to get me to write! HAHAHA! Seriously though, she is amazing and so is her writing. Check out her Sansa/Petyr series [The Baelishes](http://archiveofourown.org/series/567308)!
> 
> FURTHERMORE, the amazing [Elenatria](http://elenatria.deviantart.com/) illustrated another scene of Brienne and Tormund getting funky together from chapter thirteen. [CHECK IT OUT!!](http://elenatria.tumblr.com/post/156534520883/scoot-back-he-said-and-she-did-so-sliding) You should follow her on Tumblr and leave a million comments and kudos!!! She is fantastic!!  
> 

Jaime slowly paced back and forth in the dark, drafty room, still clutching the thick blanket around his bare shoulders.  It would have been preferable to speak with his captor wearing something more than a pair of breeches.  But there was nothing else in the room to wear.  He had looked in the chest of drawers to the left of the bed and found them empty.  He searched, then he paced, then he searched again.  There was no rush.  Jon taking his sweet time getting here, Jaime quickly realized, as the minutes ticked by.  He grumbled angrily to himself as he dropped back down on one of the chairs in the room, a sharp stab of pain coursing through his body as he bent at the wound on his stomach.  He tried to ignore the pain, too annoyed to do much but grimace.  Jaime was not good at waiting.  Nor was his empty stomach, which was now creating a symphony of crude gurgles and grumbles.   

He took a deep breath. Any notions he had of being treated with some semblance of dignity by the bastard king quickly faded as the realization of the seriousness of the situation settled on him.  He was a captive.  He had been stripped of his clothes.  He was hungry and cold.  The only person who felt any shred of compassion for him was nowhere to be found.  He held no bargaining chips save for what he knew of King’s Landing and it’s mad Queen.  If he couldn’t prove his usefulness, he’d surely be put to death.

A lesser man might have been afraid.  Jaime wasn’t a fool.  He knew the stakes.  He also knew that Jon was probably feeling in over his head with this whole “King in the North” charade.  He didn’t know how to be a king.  The last time Jaime and Jon had spoke at Winterfell, it had been easy for Jaime to intimidate the boy.  He was anticipating this situation to be no different.  He might have to massage Jon’s ego a little to get what he wanted, considering he was calling himself king now, but Jaime doubted it would take more finesse than that.

Jaime tapped his fingers impatiently on the wooden table, eager to face Jon.  He sat there, irritated, for what felt like an eternity.  Listening keenly for the sound of someone approaching the door, he grumbled petulantly to himself.

He noticed the smell first: a delicious aroma of some kind of meat wafting beneath the door.  His stomach roared in protest; his mouth instantly watering.  Jaime’s eyes locked on the door, eager for it open.  He heard heavy footsteps approaching and the hum of voices, though he could not make out the words being spoken.  Jamie could barely stand how long it was taking.   He wanted to jump up, march over there, and open the damn door himself.  Before he could succumb to the urge, however,  he heard the creak of metal as the door swung open.  

Jaime rose to his feet to meet his captor head on, trying his best to appear smug and confident despite the fact he was half naked, unarmed, and barefoot.

He didn’t really know what he was expecting to see when Jon walked through the door,  but it certainly wasn’t the formidable man that strode into the room, stubble on his chin, lips in a grim line.  Jon was dressed in dark leather furs embossed with wolves and he stood tall, eyeing Jaime with his dark, brooding eyes, an impressive sword hanging from his belt.  

Jon had grown.

Whatever he had experienced at the wall had made him tough and confident. It was blatantly obvious to Jaime that much had changed since they had last spoken. While Jaime had been crippled and stripped of his influence, Jon had only grown stronger and more respected.  He was still taller than Jon, but somehow, staring at the young, virile man, Jaime felt small.   On only very few occasions could Jaime remember feeling so diminished, and each time he felt sick to his stomach.  This time was no different.

“Welcome back to Winterfell, Jaime.” Jon said dryly.

Jaime felt a stirring of animosity at the casual greeting.  It was repulsive that the bastard had no qualms about plainly saying his first name without his proper title.  Jaime gritted his teeth, struggling to control the annoyance that flared within him.   Jon was making it very clear just where Jaime stood.  He said nothing in reply, only nodding his head silently to return the rude reception.  

Instead, Jaime swallowed the lump of anger in this throat and searched his mind for how he could turn the situation around and gain the upper hand.  He was at a loss.  He didn’t get much time to think, however, before he was completely distracted by the enticing odor coming from the plate of food in Jon’s hand.  He hadn’t noticed it at first, but now that he had, it was all he could seem to see.  Jaime stared at the delicious looking meat and potatoes, trying not to drool, as his stomach roared in protest.  At least the bastard had brought him some food.  It would be much easier to think quicker and more cunningly with a full stomach.

Jon seemed to notice him staring and stated in a plain voice, “I hope you don’t mind if I eat while we talk.  My duties as King in the North kept me busy today.”

Jamie fought to keep his jaw from falling open in utter shock.   _Why that insolent... little... asshole!_ He couldn’t say a word, only clench his jaw in restrained fury, as the bastard king took a seat across the table from Jaime and began to slowly and methodically cut up and consume his dinner. Dismayed, and trying not to show it, Jamie sunk into the other chair and blankly peered at the boy, no, the man.

It was then that a cold fear struck Jaime right in the gut.  He suddenly understood that Jon had purposely drawn out the time before coming to see him.  Jon was making him wait, making him stew in nervous anticipation.  His guards must have told him that Jaime had requested something to eat, so he had deliberately brought a plate of food  to eat in front of him.  Jon was telling him, without uttering more than a few words, that he had absolutely no power here.   Jaime was fucked, plain and simple.

The tragic absurdity of the whole situation rose like hot bile in his throat.  And then suddenly, Jaime was doubled over in raucous laughter, clutching his sides, tears coming to his eyes.  It was the sick twisted laugh of a demoralized man, hiding the panic and hopelessness that had intensely overcome him.  It echoed garishly in the room, sounding foreign even to his own ears.  Maybe he wasn’t the only Lannister that had been driven mad.  Jaime couldn’t seem to stop laughing, even as Jon’s placid facade faded. He glared at his captive, the shift of his weight in his chair revealing his uneasiness at Jaime’s bizarre behavior.

Jaime banged his fist on the table, gasping between each perverse burst of laughter,  “I didn’t… know you… had it in you…  you cocky bastard.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed at that, his metal fork clanging against his plate as he dropped it in his anger.  The bastard king rose to his feet, glaring coldly down at Jaime.  He reached for the hilt of his sword even as Jaime continued to shake with laughter.  It was not wise, Jaime knew, to piss off his captor with such recklessness.  Jaime didn’t seem to possess any ounce of a self preservation at the moment.  It was all just so pointless.

He had fought so hard and so long to get here, nearly dying on the journey, and for what?  Some delusional fantasy that somehow seeing Brienne again would make it all make sense, make it all right.  The reality was he that had fought to make it to Winterfell just to die.  And what a fitting death it would be.   

Faced with such cold harsh truth, after deluding himself with such sheer nonsense, how could he not laugh?  Jaime raised his hands in mock surrender, fighting to gain control over himself.  “Sit down,” he cajoled the incensed king, still chuckling rancorously.

Jon did no such thing, the hand on the hilt of his sword tightening.  

Jaime exhaled with defeat, his arms falling back to his sides. “You’ve won!   The moment I tumbled through the gates of your castle, sick with fever, you claimed your victory.  You stripped of my clothes, my armor, my hand.”  Jaime leaned back against the chair, crossing his arms over his bare chest causally.  His acceptance of his despair had made him fearless.  He had nothing left to lose. “And then you had me nursed back to health… just so you could toy with me.”   

“It would be dishonorable to kill a sick man,” Jon rebuked.

“So you couldn’t kill me then.  But you could kill me now.”  The muscle in Jon’s jaw flared with restrained emotion.  The bastard was fighting to maintain control of himself.  But he was Ned Stark’s son and so he clung to some stupid code of honor.  Jaime should have been grateful, but instead he felt vexed.  His family had no such morals.

Jaime scowled, “You ought to just do it.  The Lannister name is all but destroyed.  My father is dead.  My brother killed him and disappeared across the narrow sea.  My sister has gone insane and crowned herself Queen.”

Jaime paused, peering up at Jon.  He stared back, clearly listening intently as Jaime confessed how the once valiant Lannisters had become nothing but a shadow of their former glory.  Jon slowly released his grip on his sword and returned to his seat, clearly more interested in what information Jaime had than exacting revenge.  

Jaime continued in a bitter voice, “It was her that killed Queen Margaery, did you know that?”  The shocked look on Jon’s face revealed that he had not, Jaime noted smugly.  “And most of the Tyrells as well.  She blew them all up… with wildfire. The King was so distraught, he flung himself from the castle tower.”  The depraved laughter washed over him again, distracting him from the desperate pain of his son’s suicide.  Or perhaps because of it.

“I have nothing,” Jaime muttered, his eyes falling to the table as he felt in his bones how  true those words really were.  “You’re taunting a man who has nothing.”  For a split second, the image of Brienne’s bright blue eyes, brimming with concern, flashed in his head.  What would she tell him to do if she were here?  Fight?  Fall to his knees and beg for mercy? He didn’t know.  Nor did he know when he would see her again.  Jaime gritted his teeth, hoping desperately that if Jon did sentence him to death, he would at least get to see her face one last time.  

“I want information.  Details,” Jon stated, his grim voice pulling Jaime from his wallowing.  Jon was too benevolent for his own good, reminding Jaime that he did, indeed, possess something of value.  Jaime slowly raised his eyes as the young king continued urgently, “How many men does your sister have?  How is she keeping the throne without any allies?  Is there any truth to the rumors that a Targaryen girl is sailing to Westeros with a massive army?”   The questions hung heavy in the air between them.  Jaime choose his reply carefully.

“Once I tell you what I know, you’ll kill me,” Jaime replied flatly.  Jon frowned.

“Give me what I want, prove your usefulness, and I’ll spare your life,”  Jon countered, his face stoic.   “Unlike some, I keep my word.”

Jaime grinned at the thinly veiled barb, feeling amused at Jon’s lame attempt to insult his treacherous family.  Jon's judgement didn't interest Jaime, but his sudden willingness to bargain did. There was hope in that.

“I can’t make an important decision like this on an empty stomach,” Jaime remarked boldly.  He was pushing his luck.  The last time he’d done that, he lost a hand.  Old habits, and all.  

Jon’s icy eyes bored into him, before he rose from his chair to walk to the door.  He spoke to someone outside the room, too quiet for Jaime to hear.  Jon returned to the spot across the table from Jaime, not saying a word.  A guard carrying another plate of food followed him into the room, dropping the plate unceremoniously in front of Jaime.  He tossed a fork on the table, giving Jaime a disgusted glare.  

“What? No ale?” Jaime quipped to the guard, a glib smile on his lips.  The man visually rankled before he turned and stomped back to the door, closing it behind him with a bang.  

Jaime was disappointed.  His egregious request for food apparently wasn’t as outrageous as he had hoped.  Jon had had another plate of food made for him before he had even entered the room.  Jaime wasn’t asking for anything Jon had already decided to give him.

Despite his ravenous appetite, Jaime forced himself to eat slowly, savoring each bite of tender meat.  It was venison, he noted with satisfaction, and it was cooked to perfection.  Jon stared over the table at him, his face unreadable, as Jaime relished his turn to draw things out.  

After swallowing another juicy bite, Jaime declared, “I hear the winter air is freshest in Winterfell, though it's hard to tell in this tiny room…”

Annoyance flashed in Jon’s eyes.  “You’re delusional if you think I’ll grant you free reign of the castle.”

“Of course not,” Jaime retorted with the wave of his hand.  “Once a day, you let me leave the room.  I'll go outside and see the sky, that's it. That’s all I ask.”  Jaime took another bite, chewing slowly, his stomach finally beginning to feel full.  “No more than a half an hour, with guards of course.  I’m sure Brienne would-”

“No, not Brienne,” Jon cut him off abruptly.  “But I can think of others that will do.”  

Jaime raised an eyebrow at that.  “If it’s a northerner, you might as well kill me now,” he said flippantly.  The Lannister army had killed far too many northerners to trust any of them with his life.

“No, not a northerner.  At least not in the sense of what you are thinking...” For the first time since he had entered the room, Jon let a tiny smirk appear on his lips.  It unsettled Jaime but he was too close to getting what he wanted to press his luck.

His face revealing he was already decided, Jon declared, “You tell me what you know and, in exchange, I let you live to see the sky.”  

The king stood and strode around the table, holding out his right hand for Jaime to shake and seal the deal.  Jaime pushed himself to his feet and reached out with his right arm, offering Jon the stump of his hand to shake.  The two men stared at eachother; Jaime unwilling to break eye contact and Jon appearing unsure of how to proceed.  After a beat, Jon pulled his hand back in haste before thrusting out his left hand for Jaime to shake. Jaime tried not to gloat at his minor triumph, before he seized Jon’s hand in his own.  Their palms slapped together, fingers gripping tightly, as they shook on their agreement.

“Deal,” Jaime affirmed, a smarmy smile appearing on his handsome face.


	40. chapter forty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They both knew what he was really asking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, this chapter is long. My bad!! I hope you all enjoy it regardless.
> 
> As always, a big ol' thanks to WriterChick for all her awesome help!! Don't forget to read her Sansa/Petyr series [The Baelishes](http://archiveofourown.org/series/567308)!

Brienne woke slowly, sliding languidly from her cozy slumber. She was on her back, Tormund's thick arm snug around her waist, making her feel warm and secure.  It was still as strange as it had been the first time, waking up in his arms, though now she had no qualms about it.  In fact, she had the sudden thought that she hoped it might become routine.  Especially since this time they were both naked: no clothing nor furs preventing his warm skin from touching hers.  She reveled in it.

Brienne turned her head to look over at him, a contented smile spreading on her lips at the sight of his handsome, sleeping face. Tormund was sprawled on his stomach, legs splayed, his head turned towards her, his other arm curled under his pillow.  She watched the slow rise and fall of his back with each deep breath he took, wondering if he was dreaming.  Gingerly, she moved her hand beneath the blankets to circle her fingers around his forearm.  Slowly, as not to wake him, she lifted his arm off of her and rolled on her side toward him. Placing his arm gently back around her, she held perfectly still to avoid further disturbing his sleep. He didn't even stir.  Brienne found it odd that he seemed to sleep so deeply.  With the threat of attack nearly constant beyond the wall, surely that was a dangerous thing.  

 _Perhaps he only sleeps so soundly when I’m beside him,_ Brienne found herself thinking with a grin.  Maybe he instinctively knew she would protect him from any sudden dangers.  And she would, without hesitation.

Now that she was facing him, she reached up to lightly touch his scruffy cheek. Brienne was pushing her luck, knowing full well she might wake him, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.  She moved her hand to his muscular shoulder before dipping it beneath the cover of blankets to slid it down his broad back. Brienne bit her bottom lip, feeling her whole body warm as she touched him, and the memories of all the ways he had touched her the night before came flooding back.  She had lost track of how many times he had made her orgasm.  She had never known, no one had ever told her, or even hinted, that such pleasures were possible.  Sex had always seemed like something women had to endure, something that proper wives submitted to. It was the price you had to pay to fulfill the marriage contract, the penance in order to bear heirs.  But she was discovering that was wrong, that was _all_ wrong.

Being with Tormund was extraordinary.  He seemed to relish in exploring all the ways he could coax pleasure from her body, almost as much as she enjoyed letting him.  And that smug, gratified look on his face every time he made her shake and moan with bliss… just the recollection of it was enough to cause Brienne’s pulse to quicken.  What was wrong with her?  All they had done last night ought to be enough to keep her satisfied for days, if not weeks.  Instead, she felt a growing hunger for things that no feast could ever satiate.

Brienne pulled her hand back from underneath the blankets to grasp the warm furs.  Tugging them up, and off of Tormund, she peered in the dim morning light at the tantalizing curve of his ass. She felt no shame in leering at his naked body.  But her face warmed with embarrassment as she noticed several coin-sized bruises on his right cheek.  

They were her doing.  He had been on top of her, rolling his hips into her, the muscles in his back rippling beneath her hands with every slow, perfect thrust of his cock. She had felt the luscious hot pleasure building within her.  In her eagerness to reach her peak, she had reached down and grabbed onto his ass, pulling him deeper inside of her.  Tormund had grinned at her, eager to oblige.  He intensified the grind of his hips, keeping a steady rhythm, until she moaned loudly with her release. It was then, and only then, that she loosened her rough hold on him. The purplish bruises were a telltale sign of just how much she had let lust overwhelm her.

She ought to be ashamed by that.  Highborn ladies didn’t act that way.  Brienne slowly lowered the blankets back onto Tormund, thinking wryly to herself that it was good thing she had never been much of lady.  And now they had a matching set of ass bruises, she noted with a smirk.

Looking past Tormund, Brienne noticed that the fire in the hearth had nearly gone out, just a few glowing orange embers remaining.  Her room was already chilly and would only become more so if she let the fire continue to dwindle.  Wriggling carefully out of Tormund’s possessive embrace, she scooted towards the edge of the bed and braced herself to leave the warmth of the blankets.  She couldn’t help but let out a little squeal when the brisk air touched her bare body as she dashed toward the fireplace.  

Brienne knelt in front of the flames, blowing softly on the fading embers until they grew red hot.  Feeding the fire some kindling, the flames quickly intensified, warming her front.  It didn't take long before the fire had grown enough that she could toss several logs on it to keep it going.  It wasn’t yet sufficiently hot to fully heat the room, or herself,  and so she scurried back to the warmth of the bed.

Diving under the covers, she wasted no time cuddling up to Tormund again.  His body was scorching compared to her shivering one and she pressed herself to him without restraint. Gone was any concern for whether she would wake him, her desire to quit trembling with cold taking precedence.  

Tormund groaned when her body met his, finally stirring from his slumber.  “Bloody hell, woman,” he grunted, not bothering to open his eyes. “Your feet are fucking ice.  Did you try to climb the wall barefoot?”

Brienne held in a laugh, now purposefully poking her icicle toes at him just to egg him on. Tormund roared, tossing an arm over her and pulling her closer.  His green eyes finally opened to glare at her but she just giggled playfully back.  Tormund growled again, rolling on top of her and using his warm body as a blanket to cover her.  He nuzzled his cheek to her bare breast, gently settling his weight on top of her.  Brienne sighed happily, enjoying the cozy closeness of him as she ran her fingers through his copper mane.  

“Is this another one of your damn Southron customs?” he asked gruffly, his voice muffled as he spoke against her skin, his thick beard tickling her. “Waking up at the ass crack of dawn?”

Brienne chuckled.  “No. But it is to be cold all the time.  I honestly know don’t how you stand it here, especially in winter.”

Tormund kissed her breasts, first one then the other, before raising his head to meet her eyes.  “We fuck a lot.  Keeps us good and warm.”  Then he smirked at her, pushing himself forward to press his lips to hers.  Brienne returned the kiss with fervor, eagerly sliding her hands down his muscular back.  Seven hells, she couldn’t seem to get enough of him.

Tormund, it seemed, had other things on his mind.  Namely, going back to sleep.  He ended the kiss and nestled his head into the crook of her neck, closing his eyes again.  

Brienne frowned, disappointed.  It didn’t seem fair.  She was stuck beneath him, his enticing body pressed against hers, the touch of his lips fresh in her mind…  And he was trying to snooze. She wriggled under him, freeing one her legs from beneath his and then lifting it to curl around his hips.

“Tormund,” she breathed, her voice giving away her need for him as her hands roamed his body, caressing every part within her reach. Tormund snickered, his chest rumbling against her own.  “I think you free folk are onto something,” she cajoled, wiggling suggestively as she added in a coy voice, “I’m so cold…”

“Aye,” he acquiesced, lifting his head to meet her eyes again, the devilish light in his own causing the breath to hitch in her throat.  “Is that what you want?  Me to warm you up?” he growled.  

Brienne nodded, feeling her cheeks heat at his words.  A smug smile curled on his lips before he disappeared beneath the blankets, kissing and nipping down her body as he went.  Her pulse began to pound with anticipation when he nudged her legs apart.  But Tormund took his time, fingers trailing along her stomach to her hips then her inner thighs.  She felt his hot breath on her skin as his mouth left winding trails of kisses on her eager body.  

Brienne squeezed her eyes shut, curling her fists into the blankets, and biting her bottom lip.  She hated it when he teased her.  She hated how much it made her hot and wet and desperate. She hated how much she absolutely loved it.

Just when she felt like she couldn’t stand it any longer, Tormund finally plunged his tongue into her pussy. Brienne cried out, the sound a mixture of relief and delight.

Damn he was incredible with his mouth, licking and sucking so skillfully.  She was instantly gasping for breath as the waves of desire rippled through her body.  One of his large hands slid out from beneath the furs to fondle her breast, her nipples obediently hardening under his touch.  Brienne could do nothing but pant and clutch the blankets, her back arching of it’s own accord. She tried to hold in the moans and cries of his name that bubbled within her.  It was one thing to be loud under the cover of night, when the castle was asleep and no one was the wiser. It was quite another to be so brazen in the stark morning light. The worry that others would hear helped her cling to the smallest shred of restraint as she felt herself beginning to fall apart under the stroke of his hot tongue.  

Her legs began to quiver, the tension building rapidly in her body. Tormund started to hum, his mouth pressed against her, the vibrations amplifying her pleasure even further.  

“Gods!” Brienne moaned, muscles stiffening as each surge of bliss overwhelmed her senses.  “More!”  

Tormund readily complied, a rumbling growl erupting from his mouth at her command.  How in the world did he know just how to increase her ecstasy, how to make her fall fantastically apart? Brienne tossed her head back and forth, gripping the sheets below her so tightly her hands began to ache.  She was nearly coming when he slowed the caress of his tongue on her clit, pulling back slightly.  Brienne’s mouth fell open in betrayal, her labored breath preventing her from cursing him.  His hand on her breast disappeared beneath the furs and she felt Tormund shift slightly on the bed.  Unable to see what he was doing, she gasped at the gentle push of his fingers as he slid them inside her throbbing pussy. Without hesitation, his mouth returned to tormenting her, tongue teasing and lips vibrating as he moaned against her.  

Oh gods.  The pleasure was staggering, inside of her and all around her, spreading and amplifying with each adept caress. She could barely think beyond Tormund’s perfect fingers and mouth.  Somehow she had enough sense to reach with a shaky hand to the pillow beside her. Brienne curled a fist into it and tugged it toward her, shoving the downy cushion to her mouth to silence the howls she knew were building within her.  It was just in time too, for it was not but seconds later when her body began to quake uncontrollably.  She could feel Tormund’s hand firm on her hip as the other continued to stroke the hidden spot within her.  His mouth kept going too, even as she bucked and shuddered in her delirium.  The pillow, thankfully, muffled her frantic shouts as she squeezed her eyes shut and let herself be completely conquered.  He did stop eventually, but only when she was reduced to nothing more than a mewling, panting, trembling puddle of feverish euphoria.

Brienne couldn’t speak a word when Tormund crawled back up her body, a cocky look on his face as he emerged from beneath the blankets. Flushed and sweaty, she gazed at him as he wiped his glistening mouth with the back of his hand. Smirking at her, he tugged the pillow from her grasp and flopping down on it beside her.

“Did I warm you up enough?” he jested, his fingers trailing along her bright red cheek before he leaned in and touched his lips to her quivering ones.  She was more than warm.  Her whole body was tingling with luscious heat.  And her mind was still too blissfully fuzzy to allow her to do anything but whimper softly in reply.  

Tormund chuckled, “I’ll take that to mean yes.”  Laying on his side, he curled his arm around her and pulled her against his chest.  He was careful to avoid the bandage at her ribs.  Tormund had insisted on covering her wounds before they went back to sleep last night.  She was beholden to his kindness then, and now. Tormund kissed her forehead softly, holding her snug to him. Still trying to catch her breath and calm her furious heartbeat, Brienne nestled into him, pressing her lips to his neck. She breathed in his musky scent, feeling so overcome with her love for him.  He was so selfless: perfectly content to please her, to hold her, to love her.  She silently thanked the gods for bringing them together.

“I love you,” Brienne finally managed to mumble, slowly opening her eyes to peer adoringly up at him.

“I think you love my tongue,” Tormund laughed again, tenderly stroking her short locks with his calloused hand.  Brienne scoffed at that, pushing herself up on her elbow to kiss him deeply.  

Her lips still against his, Brienne quipped back, “I think it’s your tongue that loves me.”  Tormund erupted in uproarious belly laughs at that, wrapping both his arms roughly around her as he shook with humor.  Brienne was instantly giggling too, unable to resist his infectious joy.  If only it could be like this forever, just her and Tormund, naked and laughing, holding tight to each other. How wonderful would that be?  

But there was a demanding world of obligations outside her bedroom door that could no longer be ignored.  Despite being fully aware of that, Brienne felt dismayed when Tormund untangled himself from her and moved to the edge of the bed.

“I thought it was too early to rise?” she goaded playfully, trying to hide her disappointment.

Tormund glanced at her over his shoulder, grinning.  “Aye, ‘tis. But not for a piss.”   Brienne chuckled at his bluntness, but then watched with confusion as Tormund stood, walked to his furs, and began to dress.

“Since when do you need to dress for that?” she asked, gesturing to the corner of her room.  “The chamber pot is right there…”

Tormund shook his head stubbornly as his strapping chest disappeared beneath his furs.  “You southerners are fucking crazy.  I ain’t gonna piss in a pot like it’s some kinda precious thing to save for later.”  He punctuated his words with the tying of his belt around his hips.  Brienne couldn’t stop herself from laughing again.  Sometimes it was all too easy to forget their vastly different upbringings.

“But it’s so cold outside,” she exclaimed, feigning exaggerated concern.  “In weather like this, things can just freeze and fall right off...”  Her eyes wandered deliberately to his crotch. A wide grin appeared beneath his beard.  He shook his head again, this time in what looked like utter disbelief at her attempt at a silly joke.  

Tormund stepped back towards the bed as he chided, “I forgot. That’s the other bit you love about me.”  She crawled to the edge of the bed and rose to her knees, curling her arms around his neck.  He quickly moved his arms to enfold her in a hug.

“Yes.  Your tongue and your-” despite her attempts to be racy, she blushed as she said the word, “-cock.  That’s all I love about you. The rest is nothing special.”  Her fingers stroked the fine hairs at the nape of his neck as she tried not to smile.

“Aye,” Tormund grunted, before he kissed her passionately, his hand sliding down her back to squeeze her ass.  Brienne felt breathless when he slowly ended the kiss, cursing the furs on his body that kept his skin from hers.  She didn't want him to go.  She didn't want to face the harsh realities of morning. She didn't want to feel sick with grief and worry and now guilt because she allowed herself to experience such joy with Tormund when she ought to have been by Jaime’s side, or Sansa’s, or fulfilling any of her other neglected duties.

“All that'll be waiting for you tonight, I promise,” he murmured, meeting her eyes, seeming to sense from her arms tight around him that she was reluctant to let him go.

“I suppose you're off to see the King then,” Brienne asked, indeed loosening her grip on him, knowing full well she could more easily stop the sun from rising in the sky than continue to avoid her obligations.

“Aye.  Jon’s given me all sorts of duties.  I'd tell him to fuck off if I didn't believe in him so much,” Tormund admitted with a chuckle, his hands trailing slowly up her spine. “Are you gonna see his sister?”

Brienne nodded, feeling her stomach clench with guilt at the acknowledgement that she hadn't spoken to the Lady in two days.  She was an awful sworn shield.  Brienne felt the sudden urge to get dressed and pulled herself from Tormund's arms.  He moved back from the edge of the bed to give her room to stand and watched as she scrambled toward her small clothes and began to shove them on.

“Jon’s worried about her, you know,” Tormund said, his voice becoming serious.  “He thinks that Littleprick, or whatever his name is, is getting to her.  Messing with her head.”

Brienne snorted with disbelief as she tugged on her undershirt.  “That’s impossible.  Lady Sansa is far too smart for that.”

“Course,” he replied.  “So you're going straight there… to see her?” Tormund asked quietly, his eyes on his hands as he adjusted the sword on his belt.

Brienne paused, looking over at him, trousers around her knees. She stood to her full height, slowly tugging up the pants, knowing full well what he was asking.

“No,” she admitted truthfully, swiftly tying the lacing that held her trousers on.  She debated whether to say more as she pulled her tunic over her head. There was no point in being vague.  She was aware of what he really wanted to know.

“I need to check on him…” Brienne admitted in a soft voice, moving to stand in front of Tormund.  

He nodded, his eyes still lowered, as he mumbled, “I know.”  She reached out to place a hand on his chest, wishing she possessed the verbal prowess to say something that would make him feel better, make him not angry or worried or upset. Something that would make Tormund understand the devotion she felt to him, regardless of Jaime or how she felt about him.

It was Tormund that spoke, however, finally raising his eyes to look at her, all the playfulness gone from his face and replaced with candor.   “I know you care about him.  And I understand you don’t just stop caring about someone because someone else comes along.”  He shifted his weight from foot to foot, appearing uncomfortable, “I’m sorry I got so angry last night.  I had no right-”

Brienne cut him off with an earnest kiss.  She didn’t need or want his apology.  She would have been furious too, if the situation had been reversed. More than that, however, was the compulsion to stop him from bringing it all up again.  She did not need more guilt or confusion about her jumbled feelings for Jaime.  When she pulled back from Tormund, the humor had returned to his eyes.

“Alright,” he laughed, “We don’t have to talk about it.”  His arms were tight around her when he looked her dead in eye and declared, “Just promise me - if he tries to kiss you, you’ll kick him in the balls!”  Brienne stared at Tormund for a moment, unsure if he was serious, until she saw the tiniest hint of a grin tug at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re a bloody idiot,” she snickered, unable to stop herself from smiling back at him as she shoved him playfully away.  “I’ll kick _you_ in balls for being so ridiculous.” Tormund laughed, too loudly, and Brienne suddenly realized that beneath his humor, a part of him was not joking.  He was worried and trying not to show it. She knew not what to say to that.

“My balls would be honored to have you do anything to them,” Tormund smirked before he gathered Brienne up in his arms again and kissed her lovingly.  She might not have the words, but she did know how to show him, incontrovertibly, that she was his. Brienne pressed herself to him, parting her lips and stroking her tongue against his own.  The fire sparked instantly, hot and burning, between them.  

They were both breathless when the kiss ended, remaining in each other’s arms for several minutes, neither wanting to be the one to pull away. It was Tormund who sighed and then slowly pulled himself from her embrace.

“I’ll see you at supper,” he breathed.

“Yes… supper,” she mumbled as Tormund gathered up the rest of his things and made his way to the door.  He paused for a moment, his hand on the latch, before he turned back to look at her.

“I love you, you know,” he said sincerely.

“I know.”  Her cheeks hurt from all the smiling and laughter that he had drawn out of her in the last twelve hours, this moment being no exception. He seemed pleased by her response and beamed at her before opening the door and disappearing into the hallway, the door closing swiftly behind him.

As she pulled on her gambeson and strapped Oathkeeper to her hip, Brienne rallied her strength for the undoubtedly difficult day that lay ahead.


	41. chapter forty-one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King's orders.
> 
>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was stressful. And I think it's only going to get worse. How can we survive this???? Sometimes I can't deal with my own story.
> 
> As always, a million thanks to WriterChick!! Check out her Sansa/Petyr series [The Baelishes](http://archiveofourown.org/series/567308)!

“Did you sleep well, my lady?” the shortest of the guards sneered, nudging his partner, the one with the bandage on his nose, in the ribs.  The bruised guard replied with a sly smirk, his eyebrows raising hastily.  Both men grinned foolishly up at her, poorly attempting to hold back their laughter.  Their looks seemed playful yet sinister.  It only confused her.  

Brienne narrowed her eyes at the two men, perplexed by their bizarre behavior, though she said nothing in reply.  Despite the early hour, perhaps the guards had already dipped into their ale. It was the only explanation she could think of to justify their lack of manners. _How imprudent,_ she mused, feeling irked.

“You know what they say,” the bandaged guard sniggered, before smiling lewdly at her, “a sword’s happiest in its sheath.” Both men laughed uproariously then, neither bothering to hold in their amusement anymore.  Brienne frowned, her irritation growing.  She was not in on the joke. What the hell were they going on about?

Again, she said nothing, stepping around the two ridiculous men, who were now doubled over from having entertained themselves so thoroughly. A third guard, who had been standing off to the side, appeared to be taking his duty more seriously. He stepped in front of Brienne to stop her advance.

“Your sword,” he demanded, extending his palm for her to hand over the weapon.  Brienne balked at the request.  She was not willing, under any circumstances, to surrender Oathkeeper. Her grip on the hilt tightened as she glared down at the man.  

He sighed, looking annoyed.  “No one is permitted to enter while armed. King's orders.”

King’s orders?  Since when? Brienne was instantly suspicious, wondering why the guard was trying to render her weaponless. Perhaps he had a vendetta against her? Though, to be fair, she didn’t recognize him.  He wasn’t any of the guards that she had fought earlier.  Still, she would not relent.

“I’m not giving you my sword,” Brienne declared.

“You want in, give it up.  Or stop wasting my time,” the guard grunted back.  “No weapons allowed since the Kingslayer woke up.”

Brienne opened her mouth to argue, but stopped short as his words sunk in.   _Since the Kingslayer woke up…_ Jaime was awake!  And well enough for Jon to be worried about him using a weapon! How could that be?  It was wonderful news!

Without giving it another thought, Brienne began furiously tugging at the buckles on her belt.  She freed the sword from her side and thrust it eagerly into the guard's hands.  Eyes growing wide, he looked utterly surprised by her change of heart, but took her sword regardless.

“Well?” Brienne demanded, impatient to be allowed into Jaime’s quarters.  

The guard chuckled dryly, “Hold your horses. The King is in there already.”  He held up a hand, signalling for her to wait while he walked to the heavy wooden door and pulled it open just enough to slip through.  Brienne found herself craning her neck to see inside the room but could only make out a bare stone wall. She heard the hum of voices but, much to her frustration, couldn’t make out any words.  

Chewing on her bottom lip, Brienne mulled over the fact that Jaime was awake, and had recovered from his fever, without her there.  She felt a stab of guilt.  And then a wave of anxiety, knowing that now that he was awake again and feeling better, they would have to speak.  She would have to tell him what she hadn’t been brave enough to before.  Oh Gods.  Would she tell him she was no longer a maiden?  No, no, Jon was in there. She couldn't say anything, she couldn't reveal anything with the King present.  Seven hells.  

Deeply analyzing the situation now, her impatience to see Jaime faded into dread.  She was terrible at things like this.  She was terrible at hiding her feelings and knowing what to say and not making things worse.  Brienne had almost decided to turn on her heel and flee when the guard emerged from the room.  He held the door open and gestured for her to enter.  

Brienne just stood there, frozen.

“The King’s waiting,” the guard prodded gruffly.  Brienne nodded, inhaling a shaky breath and forcing her leaden feet forward.  

Brienne walked slowly into the room, head up, trying to ignore the frantic beat of her heart.  Jon and Jaime were near the table in the center of the room.  The King leaned on the wooden surface, frowning, his hands flat against a large map that was spread out before him.  Jaime was sitting to his right, looking bored.  He noticed her first, scrambling to his feet.  Brienne stalled, coming to a stop several feet away from them. She felt instantly self-conscious in his gaze and tried not to fidget. Jaime’s brow furrowed as his eyes slid over her, no doubt noticing the numerous rips and tears in her gambeson. Or perhaps it was something else…

She scrutinized him as well.  He had shaved his face, though his hair was still long, nearly in his eyes. He was no longer dressed in nothing but breeches.  Jon must have given him back his clothes, for he was adorned in a supple leather tunic of dark brown that contrasted with the bright green of his eyes.  Jon had not returned his golden hand though, Brienne noted.  Jaime still seemed thin, his cheeks narrow, but there was color in his face. He looked… like himself.  Brienne was suddenly overwhelmed by how undeniably handsome he was.  

It was then that their eyes met, his revealing an intensity she could not begin to comprehend.   Brienne felt her cheeks instantly grow hot.  She quickly dropped her gaze to the floor, but not before she saw a brilliant smile appear on Jaime’s face.  Bloody hell.

“Brienne, I’m glad you're here.” Jon interrupted. She was grateful for the distraction and turned to look at the young king. Somehow, despite herself, she could still feel Jaime’s eyes heavy on her.

“Ser?” she replied with a polite nod, reaching for Oathkeeper to comfort herself, forgetting that she had relinquished it at the door.

Jon began swiftly rolling up the map as he spoke, “It’s perfect timing.  We’re finished for now.  And I’ve been meaning to ask you something. It’s rather important...” His voice faded as he glanced over at Jaime, as if suddenly realizing it was not wise to be discussing such things in front of the Lannister.  Brienne followed his stare over to Jaime, who was just standing there with that infuriatingly rakish grin on his face.

“Don’t mind me,” he quipped, crossing his arms over his chest in a display of casual self-assuredness.  Jon let out a tired breath.  Brienne couldn’t help but shoot Jaime an incredulous look in response to his nonchalant behavior.  His smile only grew.

Tucking the rolled map under his arm, Jon started towards the door.  He paused in front of Brienne to continue, “I’ll find you after supper.  I’m sure you’ll be quite preoccupied today, though I doubt I need to remind you of your duties to Sansa.”  He didn’t need to say anymore.  Jon’s message was clear; he wanted her back at Sansa’s side.  Brienne felt sick with shame that he felt compelled mention her recent lack of dedication.

“Of course, Your Grace,” she quickly replied.  “I’m sorry I-” But Jon shook his head, a gentle look in his eyes as he dismissed her apology before she could even finish delivering it.  Brienne greatly appreciated his understanding and willingness to forgive her. She was resolute in her decision that pledging herself to Sansa, and Jon as well, was one she would never regret.   The King gave her a kind nod, before striding to the door.

“Oh, one more thing,” he added, turning back around to face her.  “Do you know where Tormund is off to this morning?” Brienne was utterly taken aback by his question, her mind going blank as she struggled to find an answer.  Did Jon know he had spent the night in her room?

“I, uh…  He was looking for you, I think… I don’t know…”  Her voice trailed off.  She willed herself not to let her damn face reveal so much.

“Tormund?  What kind of name is that?” Jamie piped up from behind them, sounding peeved he had been left out of the conversation for so long.  Brienne gulped back her rising anxiety.

“Free folk,” Jon replied, his eyes curious as he peered at Brienne’s flustered face.

“What?”

Adjusting the map beneath his arm, Jon replied, “It’s a wildling name.  He’s a wildling.”

“Huh,” was all Jaime could muster in response.   Jon was looking over to Jaime now, giving Brienne a much-needed second to breathe.  She could barely stomach listening to them discuss Tormund, _her Tormund_ , so casually.  It made her feel uncomfortable, possessive even.  The free folk man had come to mean so much to her in such a short time.  Suppose Jon were to reveal something regarding her affection for him?  Seven hells, it would be awful for Jaime to find out that way.

“Is that him, then?” Jaime asked, a hint of distaste in his voice.  Jon nodded.  

Brienne’s eyes darted from Jon to Jaime. What?!?  What were they talking about?  Before she could actually form a question, she was shaken out of her thoughts by the sound of Jaime’s boots as he walked to stand beside her.  Brienne glanced over at him, feeling uneasy at the closeness of him.  

He turned to face her, but began speaking glibly, as if his words were directed at Jon.  “Have you heard, Brienne?  The King has graciously granted me daily walks in the yard. Isn’t that generous of him? All I have to do is reveal my family’s deepest secrets.”  Jaime chuckled, before adding bitterly, “Unfortunately, the only man he trusts to escort me is a wildling.”

Brienne blinked, bewildered by Jaime’s cavalier attitude.  It made it difficult to sympathize with him because it went against her very nature to be so disrespectful to the King.  Twice as disconcerting, however, was the revelation that Jon was going to have Tormund guard him.  Shaking her head in disbelief at how rapidly this whole conversation was devolving into a nightmare, Brienne struggled to gather her thoughts.  Turning to Jon, she slowly mustered up the words to voice her protest.

“Ser, forgive my presumption, but are you sure that Tormund is the proper choice for such a task?”

Jon looked amused, replying simply, “Yes. I’m sure.”

“Oh, you’d do well to listen to her!” Jaime insisted with a cocky grin.  “Some feral wildling just isn’t _proper_. I’m sure Brienne would be more than willing to volunteer for the job.”  Brienne gritted her teeth. Despite agreeing with Jaime that she was far more suited to the task than Tormund, Brienne could not condone his impudence.  She’d thought, somehow, that he’d be better than this.

Jon’s face hardened at Jaime’s words.  He stared coldly at the blonde, his eyes piercing, as he rebuked, “Tormund is perfect for the task.  He has no grudge against your family because he’s from beyond the Wall.  He’s loyal to me.  He won’t let you escape and he won’t let anyone hurt you, either. Brienne can’t do it because _her_ place is by my sister’s side.”  

Jon’s words stung.  Brienne knew full well that she had been negligent in her duty for over two days.  She could not refute his statements either. Tormund was a fitting choice, except for the part that Jon didn’t know.  Both Tormund and Jaime had declared their love for her.  If only Brienne could find a way to explain to Jon the potential disaster that lay ahead. Though, with Jaime present, that seemed entirely impossible.

Jaime scoffed loudly, clearly not willing to acquiesce to Jon’s authority.  Before he could deploy his silver tongue, Brienne sent Jaime a vexed look. To her surprise, he closed his mouth, remaining silent.  It was an unexpected relief.  Yes, Tormund guarding Jaime was ill-conceived, but for Jaime to continue disrespecting Jon would be far more dire.  No good could come from that.  How could he be so reckless?  What had happened to him?

Pushing away her concern, Brienne turned back to Jon, not knowing what else to say to him.  His charcoal eyes moved from Jaime’s face to hers, revealing absolutely nothing of what he was thinking.  Quietly, he stated, “Sansa took her breakfast in her room this morning.  You can find her there, whenever you are finished with… whatever this is.” He waved his hand dismissively at the two of them and turned on his heel. Jon strode from the room, granting neither Brienne nor Jaime another word as the door closed firmly behind him.

Brienne let out the breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding, momentarily relieved until she realized her predicament was far from over.  In truth, it had just begun. Slowly, unsure of what to expect, she shifted her body until she was facing Jaime. He was standing far too close to her, less than an arm's length away, close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his eyes, the faint creases on his brow, and the tiniest bit of grey beginning to form at his temples.  That was new.  

So was the look on his face: open, unassuming, nervous even.

It was so much worse than the arrogant demeanor and smug smiles he wore with such ease for everyone else.  Brash, cocksure Jaime was something she understood.  But this, the way he was staring at her, like he was bursting with things to tell her and yet was speechless at the same time… It was too much. She could do nothing but stare back, the silence stretching thick and heavy between them.


	42. chapter forty-two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But she had just laughed at him, a hideous calloused cackle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me.
> 
> Also, it seems like posting once a month is becoming my new schedule. Sorry for that! Life is just too crazy right now. But hey, only 60 days until Game of Thrones premieres! :D
> 
> SUPER HUGE THANKS to WriterChick. She is totally amazing. Don't forget to check out her Sansa/Petyr series [The Baelishes](http://archiveofourown.org/series/567308)!

There was something different about Brienne.  

Jaime couldn’t deny that truth as they gazed at each other, neither knowing what to say.  What was she thinking that would give her such strength in her stance, glow to her cheeks, and shine in her eyes? What could possibly have this effect on Brienne of Tarth, stalwart woman of the Sapphire Isle?

Had she always looked like that? Had he been oblivious to it before?

No, something had definitely changed. Though, for the life of him, he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was.  Or what had caused it. Was it him?  Had his confession of love brought such warmth and vitality to her face?  Jaime found himself grinning again, unable to stop himself at the thought that he most likely had something to do with it.

Her eyes dropped to the floor and he noticed her shifting her weight from foot to foot.  Brienne was uncomfortable, he realized, no doubt because he had been staring at her and grinning like an idiot for far too long.  He needed to say something to put her at ease.  But his mind was blank, his words having betrayed him.  He had the sudden urge to reach out and touch her.  Take her hand, caress her cheek, something, anything...

It was odd, the wall that seemed to have risen between them.  When had it returned?  They had been through so much together: being held captive, tied together on a horse, fighting to survive.  They had shared a bath.  She had held him naked in her arms. He had been more vulnerable in front of her than anyone else in all of Westeros.  But now… he couldn't touch her, unable to even lift his hand.  The realization of his own apprehension astonished him.  He had no notion of how she would respond to his advances and so he was filled with anxiety.

Brienne let out a slow breath and then raised her eyes to meet his.  They were so brilliant and blue, containing such enigmas.  At times, he thought he knew exactly what she was thinking, and at others, he couldn’t seem to make sense of her at all. Currently, he was worried it was the latter.

“I’m happy,” she began stiffly, “that you’re looking so much better...”

Oh now, that was just too easy.  “How I look makes you happy?” Jaime replied with a chuckle.  He didn’t know what he was expecting in response to his silly comment, but it certainly wasn’t the way she visibly squirmed, a trepidatious look clouding her face. He hadn’t meant to make her feel worse, only to lighten the mood.  Damn.  He had forgotten how humorless she could be.

“I- I only meant… I’m glad you’re well,” she stammered, her brow furrowed, her lips in a stiff line.  Jaime sighed, suddenly feeling worn out. This was not the reunion he had been hoping for, but he told himself that played no part in his abrupt exhaustion. He had simply been standing too long.  And he was still recovering from the fever. It was not at all that she hadn't smiled at him or rushed to embrace him or returned his declaration of love.  No, Brienne’s grimness had absolutely nothing to do with the feeling of weariness that overcame him.

“I’m getting there,” Jaime muttered, before turning from her and gesturing to the table.  “Do you mind if we sit? I don’t have the strength I used to…”

“Of course.  Of course!” Brienne quickly replied, her voice softening, relinquishing the vigilant guard over her feelings for him.  Her coldness wasn’t due to her lack of affection, Jaime assured himself, but from her uncertainty.  She didn’t know how to act around him.  Well, neither did he.

She stepped towards him, hesitating, as if debating whether she should help him walk to the table and sit.  He didn’t need the help, but he said nothing, watching her internal conflict with sullen amusement.   It was just so absurd that she had spoon fed him, even wiped his chin when he was too pathetic to lift either head or hand, but now it was too awkward for her to step within a foot of him. He knew she was an innocent maiden, but this was ridiculous! What was she so nervous about? It wasn't as if he was going to try to climb between her legs… yet. These things took time. And he understood that, even if she didn't.  

With a friendly smile, Jaime joked, “I’m not going to bite.”

Brienne gasped, a bright red hue instantly staining her freckled cheeks and spreading down her neck.   She raised a hand to the collar of her gambeson, her eyes looking lost in a memory.  He stared at her, confused, as a small smile crept onto her pink lips.

“Brienne?” Jaime asked, wondering what she was recalling that brought her such delight.  And it made him realize that he could count the times on his one hand that he had seen her smile… and never like that.  She startled at the sound of her name, dropping her hand back to her side and shaking her head, as if to force the thoughts from her mind.  He was overwhelmed with curiosity, but did not get the chance to inquire about what had amused her so.

“Yes, Ser Jaime,” she readily agreed, “we should sit.”  Brienne strode to one of the chairs beside the table and promptly sat down, her hands folded neatly on the table in front of her.  He followed after her, less swift, as he plopped onto the other wooden chair.  He ignored the pain from the wound in his stomach, too bothered by her words to pay much mind.

“Don’t do that,” he implored, meeting her eyes.  “Don’t use my title.  We’re past that…”  He took a breath for courage and then reached out to gently place his hand over hers.  “Aren’t we?” Jaime searched her face as he spoke, seeing her eyes widen at his touch.  He was relieved when she didn’t pull away.

“Jaime,” she breathed, struggling to hold his gaze.   There was such remorse on her face that Jaime suddenly felt sick.  She covered his hand with her other one, holding him between her warm palms. The kind gesture did nothing to soothe him as she continued, “I must tell you something.”  

Jaime felt his pulse pick up with dread at the pity in her eyes.  He knew what she was going to say.  He was such a fucking fool.  Coming all this way just to see her, blurting out his love for her…  She might care for him, but she would never choose to be with him.  He was a captive, the enemy of those she had sworn to protect.  He was penniless, hunted by his sister, stripped of his influence.  He was no better than one of the small folk or a fucking wildling.  He couldn’t give her anything she deserved. She didn’t want him.

“Please Brienne,” he murmured as he stared at the neatly wound bandage on her wrist, “Don’t say it.”  

Thankfully, she remained silent.  He continued to stare at their entwined hands.  It wasn’t fucking fair: his whole goddamn miserable life, wanting things he could never have, always having to settle, to wait, to hide his feelings.  And for what?  To be cast aside when he was no longer of any use.

Cersei had never loved him.  Not truly.

And Brienne… well, Brienne knew better than to love a broken man like him.

Feeling that same hopeless desperation wash over him that he had felt while talking to Jon, Jaime gritted his teeth.  The emotion was becoming all too familiar.  But this time, instead of perverse laughter, he was overcome with a crazed fervor.  He would not accept this.  He could not accept this.

He rose in haste and leaned across the table to steal a kiss from her. He pushed his lips to hers so heedlessly that he, himself, almost didn't believe he'd gone through with it until he realized that he just may be getting away with it.  Her lips were surprisingly soft, warm and supple. Different from Cersei’s, _better than Cersei’s_ , he told himself.

Brienne, however, seemed less than impressed.  She yanked her head back, pulling herself away from him, and shoving his hand from hers.  She scrambled to her feet and darted away like a spooked mare, her mouth hanging open in complete shock.

“What- what are you doing?” she yelped, the color draining from her face.

“I thought it was pretty obvious…” he muttered in reply, trying to force away the hot shame that burned within him.  He almost couldn't bear the bewildered look on her face, but he forced himself to hold her gaze.   Having to look her in the eye, after such swift rejection, was his punishment for his reckless impulsivity.  He should not have tried to take what she was not ready to give him.  They just stared at each other, her making no effort to rejoin him at the table and him doing nothing to pursue her, at last respecting the boundary she had drawn between them.

“What happened to you?” she asked after a long moment of silence.  Her voice was soft, but still pressing, her concern for him grating on his nerves. “Who gave you that wound on your stomach?”

Jaime frowned bitterly, turning away from her inquisitive eyes.  She wanted answers, while all he wanted was to pretend like the past didn't exist. He could tell her…  Sure, he could tell her that his sister had gone utterly mad, all their children dead and her thirst for violence and power becoming an unrelenting, unstoppable force.  He could tell Brienne that even through all the cruelty and brutality he witnessed at Cersei's hands, he had remained by her side.  He had still thought he loved her.  

He didn’t know how else to feel about her, how to imagine a world without her at its center.  And he thought, like a complete and utter fool, that now that she was the Queen, there would finally be nothing, no one, stopping them from marrying.  But she had just laughed at him, a hideous calloused cackle.  He swore he could still hear it ringing in his ears.  He had lost it then, lunging at her, pressing his golden hand to her throat and forcing the breath from her, frantic to silence her mocking laugh.  

But he’d underestimated just how paranoid she had become.  Cersei pulled a dagger from beneath her pillow and thrust it into his stomach. And then there was blood, his blood, everywhere.  He still wasn’t entirely sure how he had escaped King's Landing without being captured. Cersei’s inability to speak prevented her from calling for her guards until he had stumbled away. And then it was all a fog of adrenaline and desperation, hiding until dusk, and disappearing into the night.

Now he was alone, more alone than he had ever been in his entire life.  He had nothing, not even his name anymore.

Sure, he could tell Brienne all that… if he wanted her to be completely repulsed by him.  He could just picture it: the sheer horror on her face if he admitted that he had tried to murder his sister in a fit of rage.  

No, he could never ever tell her.  

Jaime hated he had done something so sickening he had to keep it hidden from her.  He needed to divert her attention away from asking any more questions and so he crudely went on the offense.  “What about you?  Where were you last night?” he barked, rising to his feet.

“What?” Brienne exclaimed, confused by his sudden confrontation.

“You said you’d stay by my side, watch over me, if I took the milk of the poppy.”  

Brienne recoiled at his accusation, a pained look marring her face.  He regretted his words the moment he saw her bottom lip tremble.  He silently cursed himself for being so awful to her.  Before he could take it back, she was apologizing profusely.

“I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry,” she sputtered, her voice sounding tight with emotion.  “I let you down.  I let Lady Sansa down.  I don’t know what’s come over me.  I-”  She couldn’t finish the sentence, turning away, hiding her face from him.  She was hunched over, her arms curled around herself.  Jaime silently watched her, sick with guilt, torn between the desire to gather her up in his arms and comfort her and the fear of how she would react if he tried to touch her again.

Instead, he remained rooted in place, blurting, “No. Stop.  It’s alright.  You didn’t let me down. You couldn’t let me down.”  She turned slowly back to him, the deep crease still in her brow.  But it was encouraging that she facing him again. “You were just tired, right?  You needed to sleep in your bed.  I can’t fault you for that.  What kind of a man would I be if I held that against you?”  He chuckled lamely, knowing full well that the kind of man he was wasn’t something to be proud of.  Brienne nodded slowly, his words seeming to pacify her.

“I’d be surprised though, if you actually got any sleep with all the ruckus,” he quipped.

She was perplexed by his comment, her head tilting slightly to the side.  “Huh?”

“Oh, you didn’t hear it?  I thought everyone in the whole castle could,” Jaime laughed, hoping he could break the tension by switching the topic to something so ridiculous.  Maybe he could even get her to blush again. There was something so alluring about that innocent pink hue on her cheeks.

“Hear what?” Brienne asked, the apprehension on her face finally fading completely away, replaced with curiosity.

“Some wildling and his whore were going at it all night long.  I’ve never heard anything like it before.”  He laughed again.

Brienne was instantly horrified, her hands curling into fists at her sides.  She might have been close to tears before, but now he could see them filling her eyes and threatening to spill down her cheeks.

Jaime was flabbergasted.  Was she really that offended by what some wildlings were doing? Or was it that she was furious at him for bringing up something so vulgar? Surely he said worse things to her while he was her captive. Maybe that was the problem. He hadn't changed enough.

“Brienne?” he murmured, taking a step toward her, this time deciding without hesitation that he was going to comfort her with his embrace.

She backed away from him, fumbling for the doorknob.  Before the words of his apology could leave his lips, she was flinging the door open and barreling out of room.  He called out for her.

The only reply was the sound of the door slamming shut in his face.


	43. chapter forty-three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tiny flicker of rebellion had ignited in her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK AT THIS [AMAZING ART](https://fara-daze.tumblr.com/post/159807549361/game-of-thrones-season-7-prediction-now-wouldnt) I HAD COMMISSIONED!!!!!! It's breathtaking, right? Thank [Panda Capuccino](http://panda-capuccino.tumblr.com/) for it!  
>   
> Hopefully, this makes up for me not posting in forever. :D My summer was just insane, but in a completely wonderful way! I spent several weeks in Iceland!!!!! It was a GoT fan's dream come true. I saw so many places where the show was filmed! It was incredible. That said, I am back to the daily grind and will hopefully be posting on a semi-regular schedule again. No guarantees though! I do what I can!! Anyway, hope you enjoy the new chapter. 
> 
> Once again, the person to thank for this chapter being posted is WriterChick. She is indispensable and always knows how to un-stick me when I get stuck! Check out her Sansa/Petyr series [The Baelishes](http://archiveofourown.org/series/567308)!

_Whore._

He called her a whore.

Brienne felt sick to her stomach, afraid that at any moment she might vomit up its meager contents.

She snatched Oathkeeper from the guard without a word and fled from the hallway, avoiding eye contact with all three of the men. Shame burned inside of her at the sickening realization of what their lewd comments had meant.

They had heard her. The whole castle had heard her and Tormund utterly consumed by their lust, crying out in animalistic passion, completely unaware of anything but each other.

Tears burned in her eyes and obscured her vision as she stumbled on the steep stairs that twisted down from the tower. She had to stop to breathe, her chest painfully tight, as her hand found grip on the rough stone wall to steady herself. The wall was cold, gritty and coarse beneath her fingers. Impulsively, she pressed her hot, wet cheek to the stone, grounding herself in the feeling of the frigid scrape of brick against her flesh.

Jaime kissed her.

He had kissed her and then called her a whore.

Brienne sank slowly to the floor until she was sitting on the steps, her arms curled around her knees. She could feel the unforgivingly freezing temperature of the stone seeping through her trousers, making her shiver.  Head hanging down, her tears dripped unabashedly on the worn fabric covering her thighs.

Was she a whore?

She was no longer a maiden, not by a long shot.  She was unmarried and she had no plans to change that anytime soon. And she enjoyed sex. She reveled in surrendering herself to Tormund's touch and the pleasures of their bodies intertwining.

Did that make her a whore?

Brienne did not know the answer to that.

And now the entire castle was aware of her dalliance.  Something so private, so _intimate_ , had been made forcibly public. Anyone and everyone was free to mock her, to scorn her, to ridicule the moans she made, the way she begged Tormund for more, her insatiable appetite.  An image flashed into her mind of walking into the Great Hall and having a hundred heads turn to stare at her, eyes narrowed with judgment or brimming with laughter…  

Brienne pressed her hands over her mouth, trying to force down the utter horror that rose within her.  Panic overwhelmed her until she was gasping with short, shallow breaths.  She could do nothing to stop the avalanche of self-hatred that engulfed her.

How could she have been so foolish, so reckless? She was a bloody idiot and this was just punishment for her audacity. How dare she be so selfish? How dare she think she deserved such happiness or believed that she could be loved by a man, any man, without it resulting in a humiliating catastrophe?

Brienne felt overcome with dizziness and dread, tears streaking down her cheeks as she attempted to muffle her raspy cries. Her shaky hands gripped her gambeson, desperate to find something to cling to. Absently, she dropped her eyes to the hole in the fabric at her ribs.  Trembling fingers ghosted over the bandage that Tormund had so carefully tied around her injured side the night before.

Brienne closed her eyes as another image appeared in her mind: Tormund’s deep green eyes, locked with hers, containing an endless ocean of love and adoration.  She pictured with detail the wrinkle on his brow that only seemed to appear when he was plagued with concern for her.  She recalled his voice, strong and gruff.  “ _Breathe_ ,” he had demanded when her fears had nearly overtaken her before.

Brienne fought with herself to comply and force her breathing to slow, even inhales and exhales. She imagined Tormund’s heavy hands on her shoulders, holding her safe and steady, refusing to let her give in to her panic. What would he say to her, right now, if he was beside her?

_Let them hear! Those fucking cunts are just jealous of all the fun we're having!_

He'd laugh then, his loud perfect laugh, before pulling her close for a rough kiss, the idea of being ashamed that others had heard them making love never even crossing his mind.  In spite of the storm of emotions swirling inside of her, focusing on Tormund in all his crude wonderfulness granted Brienne enough of a distraction to begin to calm herself.

It took several minutes before Brienne's panicked pulse slowed to a more reasonable pace. She still felt nauseous with embarrassment, but a tiny flicker of rebellion had ignited in her.

 _Let them hear_ , she repeated to herself. _Let them hear!_

She couldn’t change what had happened, and she wouldn’t.  It was shocking for her to realise she wouldn't trade those moments with Tormund for anything or anyone.  She loved him, and he loved her.  Besides, she was already the laughing stock of Westoros. Now she was just Brienne the Beauty, the whore of Tarth.

Seven hells! Her fists clenched painfully tight in an attempt to avoid succumbing to another flood of panic.  As long as her father never found out… She’d could manage this, the humiliation and shame, as long as he never learned of what his only child had become.

Several more minutes passed before Brienne pulled herself together enough to rise to her feet and steady herself to continue down the stairs. She moved tentatively, craning her ears for the sounds of footsteps, desperate to avoid running into anyone. The thought of returning to her room and attempting to hide crossed her mind, but was quickly dismissed. She was not a coward.

Her duty to Sansa was too important. She could not cope with neglecting it another day. The shame of that easily trumped the shame of being heard giving herself to Tormund. Brienne's pace increased, her feet thudding against the stone steps with each increasingly confident step.

The Gods must have favored her, for Brienne easily avoided interacting with anyone on her short journey through the castle to Sansa’s quarters. It probably helped that it was still quite early and she walked quickly, keeping her head down. She hesitated only a moment outside the door to the lady’s room, hand on the cold metal latch, pondering if Sansa had heard her and Tormund too.  Of course she had.  The whole castle had, Brienne reminded herself with a grim frown.  But of all the people at Winterfell, Sansa was undoubtedly the most in favor of her relationship with Tormund.  Sansa had never shamed her, but only encouraged her.  Brienne let out a breath.  She would not find judgement beyond the thick wooden door, only commiseration.

In truth, Brienne could not have prepared herself for what she was about to find.

The winter sun shone brightly through the unshuttered window, glinting off the red in Sansa’s hair and the gold in Littlefinger’s tunic.  His hand was on her cheek, the other tangled in her copper curls.  Her head was tilted back, eyes closed, lips parted, as he claimed her mouth with his own.  She did not resist, but instead seemed to press every inch of her body into him.  His only response was to pull her closer, a moan sounding from deep in his throat.

Brienne gasped, completely frozen in shock at the disturbing sight that assaulted her eyes.

But it was enough to interrupt the lip-locked pair.  Littlefinger pulled back from the kiss and turned to glare at her, malice in his eyes.  Sansa turned away, towards the window, her back to Brienne.

“Ahh Brienne,” Littlefinger remarked coolly, “You picked a spectacular time to return to your duties.”  Brienne ignored him, her eyes on Sansa’s back, wishing she could see the Lady’s face.  How was it possible that she was letting him kiss her?  After everything he’d done to her?  Brienne was dumbfounded.

“I’d ask for your discretion on this matter,” the lord continued in his  slimy voice as he straightened his tunic and smoothed his hair, “but I doubt my wishes are of any consideration to you.”  He reached for his cloak, that had been strewn across the end of the large four poster bed, and pulled it over his shoulders.  Sansa had not moved from her place by the window.

“I do hope your loyalty to Lady Sansa is greater than your disdain for me,” Littlefinger uttered with a smile that revealed he was not worried in the least that Brienne would tell anyone what she had seen.  Brienne gritted her teeth, her hand on Oathkeeper tightening in her anger.  He was such a disgusting little man.  He paused beside Sansa, a hand on her shoulder as he whispered something in her ear.  It was too quiet for Brienne to hear and she fought the urge to rush forward and pull the dastard away from the lady.  Sansa nodded in reply before Littlefinger let go and strode past Brienne, heading to the door.

He tipped his head at her as he passed, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. Brienne watched him exit, eyes narrowed, muscles taunt.  Silence hung thick in the air after he departed, words escaping Brienne.

“Sansa?” was all she could manage to mumble, her bewilderment evident in her hesitant voice.  The lady turned around slowly, her face stony, as she raised her eyes to meet Brienne’s.

“Do not look at me like that,” Sansa spoke quickly, an exasperated sigh escaping her rosy lips.  “I know what I’m doing.”

Brienne was instantly confused, “What-?”

“As despicable as he is, Lord Baelish has taught me a thing or two,” she explained, plucking a piece of pastry  from the spread of food on the table in the center of her room. “Primarily, that when you know what a man wants, you know who he is, and how to control him.” Sansa took a breath, brushing her long auburn locks off her shoulder as she brought the morsel of food to her mouth. Brienne just stared at the lady, trying to understand. Sansa took her time with the bite in her mouth, unaffected by the prolonged silence or confusion that grew in it. Finally, she rewarded Brienne's patience, swallowing before she said, “I know what he wants.” She ran a hand down her ribs, settling on her hips as she said, “ _Me_.”

Sansa’s confession did nothing to make things clearer for Brienne.  If anything, she only had more questions.  “But why-?” she began, much to the exhausted look on Sansa’s face.

“Are you really that naive, Brienne?” she asked, no malice in her voice, only disbelief. Taken aback by Sansa’s accusation of her innocence, Brienne gritted her teeth. How could Lady Sansa assume such naiveté when she was no longer inexperienced in the pleasures of the flesh or unaware of the power a woman could hold over a man that desired her?

Incensed, Brienne muttered, “I don’t understand why you feel the need to control him.  If he is a threat, then let’s lock him in chains… or better yet, let me put an end to him!  There is no need for you to put yourself in this situation.”

Sansa had moved to sit at one of the ornate wooden chairs beside the table, picking at the rest of her breakfast.  She looked completely unmoved by Brienne’s speech.  “It’s not that simple.”  

“Why not?” Brienne demanded, bringing herself to stand on the other side of the table as she looked down at the young lady.

“Because it’s not,” Sansa rebuked, sitting up straighter in the chair, her cheeks growing flushed as she spoke.  “Brienne, do you realize that at any moment, Lord Baelish could decide that the queen might be interested in knowing that her brother is hiding out in our castle?  What do you think she would do to reward such information?  And what do you think she’d do to _us_ in retaliation?  She already wants me dead!”  Her voice haven risen in concern, Sansa took a moment to calm herself, quickly sowing up the crack in her poised demeanor before continuing in a level voice.  “I know you think I’m cruel for wanting to send Ser Jaime back to King's Landing, but it’s too much of a risk having him here.”

Brienne did not agree, nor did she possess the ability to restrain herself as skillfully as Sansa. “It’s only a risk if you keep company with knaves,” she retorted.

Sansa shook her head, her lips tight in irritation.  “Alright, Brienne.  Let’s do it then.  Let’s kill Petyr.  We don’t need the men of the Vale in the wars to come.  I am sure there will be absolutely no consequences for us if we decide to throw away one of the most powerful allies we have.”  Sansa sent Brienne a look of incredulity, crossing her arms in front of her chest.  Brienne had no response, reluctantly coming to realization that the lady was right.  The sickening sensation in her stomach returned.

“I hate this,” Brienne growled, an itchy feeling of anger sparking inside of her.  It wasn’t fair.  Sansa, of all people, should be spared from having to debase herself in a such a manner.  “I hate that that miscreant gets to lay one finger on you.”

Sansa seemed surprised by Brienne’s ferocity, a dismal look settling in her blue eyes.  “It’s- it’s alright.”  The lady shrugged limply, resigned to her fate, as she confessed, “He's surprisingly gentle.”  A deep frown then marred her face, as though she was recalling something entirely displeasing. It matched the grimace on Brienne's lips.

“Gentle or not, if he dishonors you, my lady…” Brienne began, her grip on Oathkeeper so tight her fingers ached as she imagined how she would use the sword to do away with the nefarious Lord once and for all.

“He won't,” Sansa answered with a bitter sigh. “He thinks he's in love with me…”  Brienne couldn’t help but scoff at that.  Love? That cruel man knew nothing of love! He was despicable.

“I can control him easily enough, if he continues to think that I might share his affection,” Sansa added, her gaze firm on Brienne. “Which is why it is imperative you tell no one of this.”

Brienne nodded slowly, feeling anxious at the thought of such deceit. “I take it your brother doesn't know.”

Sansa let out a dry laugh. “No. Jon would never approve of such methods.”

Brienne sent Sansa a wary look as she explained, “He thinks you're angry with him. He asked me to inquire.”

“Angry? No... I'm worried,” Sansa murmured, her eyes dropping to her hands in her lap.  When she continued, her voice had lost it’s certitude. “I fear Jon is too much like father. He won't see the dangers, the risk of betrayal, until it is too late.” When she raised her eyes to meet Brienne's again, the blatant fear in them caused a cold pit of dread to form in Brienne's stomach. It was disconcerting to see the Lady so unsettled, and Brienne knew protecting Sansa from such schemes and plots was not her forte.  Brienne's weapon was a piercing sword, not a cunning and deceitful mind.  

“I do not think it is wise to keep secrets from the King, my lady. You do not have to bear this alone.”

“I am not alone. I have you, Brienne,” Sansa replied with a small grin, her emotions once again hidden behind the stoic facade she wore so well. She stood gracefully, smoothing her dress with her hands before striding past Brienne toward her heavy winter cloak hanging beside the door. “Come now. There is much to do.”

Brienne remained where she was, watching Sansa as she adorned her warmer clothes, unable to put aside her distraught feelings as easy as the lady.  Brienne felt as though she'd been tossed around a battlefield all morning and she hadn't even known she was at war.


	44. chapter forty-four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do your worst,” he challenged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooooo!!!!! I posted!!!!!!! :P
> 
> I'm sorry if you've commented on a chapter recently and I haven't replied. I will. I had to choose between spending my free time finishing the chapter or replying to comments, and I figured you'd all want more chapters. But I'll get to it. I LOVE LOVE LOVE hearing from all of you!
> 
> Thanks again to WriterChick, the best editor EVER!! Check out her Sansa/Petyr series [The Baelishes](http://archiveofourown.org/series/567308)!

“That’s not fair!” Munda protested, her voice rising with exasperation and echoing off the icy walls of Winterfell.  Tormund didn’t slow his pace, continuing his trajectory across the snowy courtyard.  He had too much on his mind to indulge his daughter’s indignation and he knew Munda would remain right on his heels, determined to make him change his mind.  Her whining was pointless.

“Bear Island is too far away,” Tormund countered, pausing for a moment to let a horse and cart filled with grain cross his path.  The courtyard was a bustle of noise and activity, the unrelenting cold motivating even the laziest of worker to quickly complete their tasks before the winter weather only made it more arduous.  

“But you left Noor at the Wall and that’s TWICE as far!”  

Tormund clenched his jaw and kept walking. He hadn’t _left_ Noor anywhere.  She had flatly refused to come south with them, suspicious of the Southerners and unwilling to venture too far from the Wall.   He had briefly considered throwing his oldest daughter over his shoulder and hauling her with them, but he knew she’d fight him tooth and nail every step of the way.  Sometimes he couldn’t believe how much she was like her mother: so bold, so steadfast, so unwilling to let him protect her.  Not that Noor needed protection, not in the slightest, but the least she could do was humor her worried father.  No such luck.

Tormund hadn’t seen Noor in weeks and it pained him.  She was too close to the threat of the White Walkers on the other side of that Wall; she was too far away for him to know if she was in danger until it was too late.  Munda was aware of how much it bothered him to have Noor so far away and was trying to get a rise out of him. She knew just how to do it too.

Instead of taking the bait, he took a breath and turned around, facing his equally headstrong youngest daughter.  She stared up at him with fire in her eyes, her jaw set firm in her defiance.  Munda was so much like _him_.  It made him proud, when it didn’t make him crazy.  

“Noor’s not alone.  She’s with family,” Tormund explained, keeping his voice low but firm.  “If you go with the convoy taking the Mormonts back to Bear Island, you’ll be alone.  Not another Free Folk for miles.  And it’ll be months before you return.” Tormund shook his head in refusal, knowing he couldn’t hide the concern in his eyes at the thought of being separated from both of his children again.  Munda groaned in her disappointment, shoulders slumping in defeat, much to Tormund’s relief.  He hadn’t the time nor tolerance to continue to argue with her, yet he felt himself softening at her dejection.

“Your sister is nearly ten and five,” Tormund added, reaching out a hand to gently cup Munda’s chin as he looked down at her, sympathy in his eyes.  “When you’re that age, you can go wherever you want. I promise.”

Munda sighed, her warm breath rising in the frigid air as a worried look passed over her freckled face.  

“By the time I’m ten and five, it’ll be too late!  Lyanna will have forgotten all about me!” Tormund was surprised by the intense melancholy on her face, which quickly disappeared from his view as she shoved herself toward him for a comforting hug.  

 _So that’s what this was all about_.

“Oh Munda,” he murmured, embracing his daughter and trying to hide his amusement at her exaggerated antics. “How could anyone forget about you?”

“But she’s just so pretty!  And brave! What if I never see her again?” she wailed into the furs on his chest.  “I’ve never met anyone like her!”  

Tormund knew that feeling all too well.  It seemed as though the Giantbanes were utterly defenseless against the appeal of the southern ladies.  But he had hoped there’d be a couple more years before Munda started having interest in any of that kinda stuff.  She was growing up so fast.

“There’s still time to give her an unforgettable goodbye,” he insisted, trying to rouse her from her defeat.  Munda let go of her iron grip on her father to stare up at him, a bit of hope sparking in her eyes.

“But how? How did you make the lion queen love you?”

Tormund chuckled, “I didn't _make_ her do anything. I was patient. And lucky.” Truthfully, he still couldn't believe Brienne loved him, that she'd allowed him into her heart and bed. It felt like a dream. The only benefit of how busy Jon was keeping him was that it made the day go by quick. Otherwise, he doubted he would have been able to go this long without seeing Brienne and not picking a fight with someone just to vent his excess energy.  Now that he was hers, he wasn't patient anymore. Sure, in his ideal world, she'd already be his wife and the fact that she had forgotten the moon tea would be a blessing, not a curse.  But as long as he could wrap his arms around her, press his lips to her trembling ones, and hear her pant and moan his name with bliss, he could wait as long as was needed for her to grow comfortable and even excited to become his wife and maybe eventually a mother.

Munda groaned again in frustration, kicking her boot against the snowy ground. “I don't have time for patience! She leaves tomorrow!”

“I’m sure you'll think of something,” he asserted, tousling her fiery curls with his hand.  “You’re Munda Giantsbane! Nothing stands in your way!” She rolled at her eyes at him but Tormund only laughed in reply.  He pulled her close to plant a loving kiss on her forehead. Munda grumbled, but didn't pull away. It was Tormund that let her go, giving her a nod goodbye, before turning away, heading towards the entrance to the castle.  

Truth be told, he was distracted.  There was so much to do, so many concerns weighing on his mind.  His people remained distrustful of the Southerners, angry at how they were being treated.  Generations and generations of conflict didn’t just disappear the moment the Freefolk were allowed through the Wall.  There was talk of retaliation, of making the Southerners pay for their cruelty, but thankfully, no more violence had followed the fires.  Somehow, Tormund and Jon had maintained the fragile alliance between their peoples.  But that wasn’t the only problem. There was a growing scarcity of firewood and food, the Free Folk suffering the most.  Jon had sent supplies in goodwill to the Free Folk camp near the wall but they had never arrived, lost to the weather or who knows what, resulting in increasing animosity.  

Tormund wasn’t good at any of this anyway.  He wasn’t skilled at making peace.  Tormund was an expert at fighting and, instead, Jon had put him in charge of trying to keep his people _from_ fighting.  They’d be lucky if the Free Folk and Southerners didn’t end up all killing each other before the White Walkers ever got the chance.

And then there was this whole nonsense with the Jaime bloke.  Did Jon think Tormund had milk coming from his teats?  Is that why Jon was saddling him with watching over the southern cunt?  Tormund only agreed because he figured Brienne would be grateful to him for guarding her friend.  And, honestly, it could be useful to size up the competition.  He hadn’t seemed like much when he was lying half-dead in a bed, but apparently, Tormund had missed something.  Everyone was in a tizzy over the southern knight.

Tormund was begrudgingly climbing the stone steps to the tower, having delayed the task for as long as possible, when Munda’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Are you going to see the Kingslayer?” she asked, a eager curiosity in her voice.  Tormund hadn’t even realized she had continued to follow him, too lost in his own thoughts.  He paused on the steps to turn and face his daughter, nodding in reply and mulling over how he could convince Munda to leave. Her curiosity had no bounds, but there were limits to his willingness to indulge her.

“Are you worried?” she implored, a frown on her lips.

Tormund laughed, shaking his head this time, “Why would I be worried?”

“I heard that he's the handsomest knight in all of Westoros. A golden lion!  Just like on Brienne’s sword!” she emphasized, a concerned look on her freckled face.  Tormund sighed. How in the hell had she heard that? What a stupid question. He knew how.

“Munda, you've got to stop eavesdropping.  One of these days, it could get you in real trouble.”

“But Papa-”

“Besides, _I’m_ the handsomest fighter beyond the Wall! I'm Tormund Giantsbane, Breaker of Ice, Speaker to-”

“Oh please no,” she pleaded, instantly exasperated.

“SPEAKER TO GODS!” he continued, voice rising.  Her annoyance only spurned him on as he  gleefully resumed. “Tall Talker! Horn Blower! Thunderfist!”

Munda pretended to fall asleep, slumping against the stone wall and letting out an exaggerated snore.   It did not dissuade him in the slightest. “Mead King of Ruddy Hall!  Father of Hosts _aaaannnnddddd_ Husband to Bears!” He finished his grand list of titles with a triumphant grin.

“Oh, are you done? I almost died of boredom,” Munda quipped, returning his smile with a wry one of her own. Tormund kept the joyful look on his face even as he stepped forward and, quick as a flash, pulled Munda's sword from her belt. Her eyes grew wide at his treachery.

“Tsk tsk. Such disrespect! And from someone who is completely unarmed!” Tormund laughed as he merrily swayed her sword between them.

Munda narrowed her eyes, reaching to her right boot to slide a short dagger from its hiding place.  She rose quickly and pointed the blade back at him. “Who says I'm unarmed?” she exclaimed smugly.  His smile only grew at her response.  

“You made a new blade,” he commented, pride in his voice at her resourcefulness.  Munda nodded, before lunging at him with the weapon.  She was aiming for his gut but did not make it anywhere near him before he blocked the blow with the sword he had stolen from her.  She stumbled back, glaring at him.

“Don’t you want to feel how sharp it is?” Munda snickered.

“Do your worst,” he challenged.  She swiftly came at him again and as they sparred, he couldn’t stop the swelling of pride in his heart at how skillful of a fighter she was becoming.  Munda had never come close to beating him, but he knew that one day she would.  What a glorious day that would be!  Munda lunged to the left and when he moved to block her, she sprang to the right, leaping past him up the stairs.

“HA!” she cried triumphantly, whipping around to face him, cheeks flushed with exertion.  “Now I have the higher ground!”

“That you do,” he conceded, adding in a stern voice, “And I’m in the perfect spot to slice you right in the kneecaps and take you down.”  Munda frowned, her eyebrows pulling together in frustration.  

“I’d block you!” she growled.

“Your dagger’s too short to stop me from this angle,” Tormund retorted.  “And now I’m blocking your only way out.  You’d be dead in a matter of minutes.”  Munda exhaled forcefully, clearly angry at him and refusing to accept that the move she thought would help her, only sealed her defeat.  

He moved quickly then, charging her, using the hilt of the sword to knock her feet out from under her.  She fell back with a cry as he smacked the dagger from her hand, sending the blade clanging loudly down the stairs, metal against stone.  Unarmed and prone on her back, he pointed the sword at her throat.

“What did you do wrong?” he asked.

Munda refused to meet his eyes, looking anywhere but at him as she mumbled,  “I traded my exit strategy for a short term advantage.”

“And?” he prodded, lowering the sword between them.

She gritted her teeth, her frustration clearly growing as she raised her eyes to glare at him.  “And you’re three times my size and much stronger and it’s NOT FAIR!” she bellowed.

“When is a fight EVER fair?” Tormund roared back, his voice reverberating off the stone as he stared his daughter down.  He could feel the heat in his face as his temper flared.  The sooner she let go of some stupid notion of fairness, the better.  She’d die in an instant with foolish ideas like that in her heard.  

She knew he was right.  He could see it in her wide eyes and the way she slumped against the stone floor in defeat.  “I acted impulsively,” she conceded, her voice quiet, chin trembling.  “I wasn’t thinking ahead.”

Tormund nodded, reaching out a hand to help her stand.  Munda took it, grasping tightly as he pulled her easily to her feet and into a firm hug. She came without protest, curling her arms around his waist.

“I want you to be strong, Munda.  And smart,” he spoke softly, his temper dissipating as quickly as it sparked.  He only wanted to protect her.

“I know,” she murmured into his furs.

He held her for a long moment before drawing back.  “You should go and practice,” he suggested, before raising her sword up. “And rewrap the leather on your sword’s hilt.  It’s getting loose.”

Munda sighed, rolling her eyes.  “Anything else?”

“Yes,” Tormund added, humor in his voice.  “Find Davos. You owe him a reading lesson.”  She groaned, taking her sword back from him and sliding it into her belt.

“Why do I have to learn to read?  It’s stupid.”

“It’s a different world now, Munda. We’re living with these kneelers and they can all read and write.  You want them to be able to trick you? You’ve got to learn.”

“But what about you?  You’re not learning!”

Tormund chuckled. “I want you to be the one to teach me!  Now go.  Off with ya.”  

Munda gave him one last look, her pinched face revealing her internal debate on whether to comply or not.  “Fine,” she growled, bending down to pick up her dagger and shove it in her boot as she trotted away.  “But next time, I’m gonna beat you!” she called as she disappeared around the bend in the circular stairs.

He watched her go, smiling to himself.  Then Tormund turned to continue up the stairs, his mind wandering.  Honestly, he doubted if he could learn to read himself.  He was too old for such things anyway.  Munda would learn quick, being young and clever as she was.  If there was any hope for their people and the Southerners getting along, it was going to be because of Munda and others her age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SNEAK PEAK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I made a moodboard for Noor. As you can see, she strongly takes after her mother. She may or may not be making an appearance soon... ;)  
> 


	45. chapter forty-five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Wildlings ate the people they killed, didn’t they?_ he found himself absently thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all you lovely readers! Hope you enjoy my latest chapter. :D  
> As always, comments and critiques are greatly appreciated.
> 
> Thanks again to WriterChick, a truly superb editor. Check out her Sansa/Petyr series [The Baelishes](http://archiveofourown.org/series/567308)!

Jaime paced back and forth in the small room, the stone walls pressing in on him.  The image of Brienne’s face was burned in his memory: tears welling in her cerulean eyes, jaw clenched with restrained emotion, forehead creased with distress.

He couldn’t decide what was worse: knowing it was him that caused her such anguish or that there was absolutely nothing he could do to make it right.  He was trapped in this godforsaken room, unable to follow her, unable to do anything but pace the floor, tracing the walls with his fingers, slowly losing his fucking mind.

He should have asked for books.  Or ale.  Or something to dull the monotony...

Jaime trudged to the narrow window carved into the stone wall of the tower.  Bracing himself for the cold that was sure to come, he pushed open the wooden shutters.  The winter wind pulled against his grip, threatening to yank the shutter from him.  He held tight, squinting against the bright white of the snow covering every inch of the sprawling lands outside the castle walls.  Shivering, he searched the grounds below, seeking one thing and one thing only.  

The bright blonde of her hair.

But the flurry of activity in the courtyard below revealed nothing of what he desired.  Teeth chattering now, Jaime’s eyes drifted to the window ledge, dusted with a fresh layer of powdery snow.  He reached down, tracing his fingers through the cold.  The ledge was level with his waist.  It wouldn’t be too difficult to pull himself onto it, even with the wound at his side.  And yes, the window was small, but not so small that he couldn’t squeeze through.  There was nothing stopping him.

It would be fitting, wouldn’t it?  After what he’d done to the Stark boy.  It would almost be poetic.

Jaime leaned forward, feeling the sting of the icy air against his face.  The cold crept into his bones, unrelenting and suffocating, his leather tunic doing little to shield him.

It probably wouldn’t even be that painful.  A quick death, something Jaime doubted he deserved.

Shaking his head at his macabre thoughts, Jaime fought with the wind to pull the shutters closed and fasten them shut.  His frozen muscles did not want to comply, but he did not give up until the cruel weather, and his pathetic thoughts, were no longer free to overwhelm him.  

Trembling, he shuffled to the fire in the corner of the room, closing his eyes as he let the warmth envelope him.  His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he had left his noonday meal untouched.  Ignoring the various pains in his body, his thoughts turned once again to Brienne’s distraught face, the memory growing more chilling with each recollection.

His self-indulgent misery was rudely interrupted, however, by the garish sound of a great booming laugh. Even through the thick wooden door, the muffled glee was undeniable.  Jaime’s eyes flew open as he frowned.  Who the fuck was that? Despite his better judgment, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from traversing the tiny expanse of his prison to listen at the door.

Ear pressed against the wood, he recognized the awed voice of one of the guards. “I counted five times you made her lose her head! How in the hell did you manage that? Is it some kind of wildling secret?”

A gruff voice with a strange accent replied, “What makes you think I’m gonna tell you fuckers anything?”

Nonplussed, another guard pressed, “Aww, come on! How did you make her moan that loud?”  The voice quieted somewhat, preventing Jaime from hearing what else was said.

There was more raucous laughter, followed by that rough voice again. “You know what your problem is?  You cunts spend all your time kneeling for this king or that lord and forget the most important place to be is on your knees before your woman.”

Unable to hear much but the mumble of one of the guard’s replies, Jaime frowned.  Who was that, saying such sundries?  From the guards’ questions, it seemed to be the man that had spent the previous night keeping them all awake with his loud fucking.  A wildling…  Was it the wildling that was going to be granting him some precious moments of freedom outside?  What an amusing coincidence.  Jaime searched his mind for the man’s name.  Tor- Torstein?  Torben?

“It really ain’t that hard to please a woman if you actually give a shit,” the wildling snorted, his voice loud enough that Jaime could hear perfectly. His attention was drawn back to the conversation happening outside the door.  “But you kneelers got tiny peckers.  And you fuck like dogs, a couple thrusts and you’re done.”  There was a subtle edge to his voice, Jaime noticed, though his remark was followed by more brash laughter at his own crude comment.  Jaime, surprisingly, found himself chuckling too.

“Fuck you, wildling,” a third guard replied, clearly not appreciating the barb.  “You’re awfully smug for someone fucking an actual dog.”  

There was a growl and then the sounds of a scuffle, pained groans as the thud of fists made contact with flesh.  It was no secret that wildling woman weren’t known for their beauty, but that guard was clearly an idiot for insulting the wildling’s lover.  From what Jaime could hear, the fight was quick; the guard soon begging for mercy.

 _Good for the wildling_ , Jaime thought, his mind flitting to the memory of smacking his golden hand against Ronnet’s stupid cheek.  There was something deeply satisfying about the shocked look on his face, seeing him stumble down the stairs, blood leaking from his lip.  Of course, Ronnet had insulted Brienne, whereas in the present situation, the guard had only insulted a wildling.  But the sentiment was the same.

Jaime also didn’t mind that the guards were getting a little payback, the frown officially disappearing from his face.  He was still standing near the door, cheek against the wood, when he heard the grating sound of a key turning in the lock.  He quickly stepped back, unwilling to be caught eavesdropping like a gossipy chambermaid.

The door swung open with force, banging against the wall as the most feral looking red-haired man Jaime had ever seen strode into the room. He was about as tall as Jaime, but much wider, and covered in a haphazard pattern of furs.  His face was flushed, there was blood on his knuckles, and he was grinning like a madman.

Jaime did not know what to think.

“Fucking hells, it's cold in here,” the wildling growled, sizing Jaime up with a crazed look in his eyes as he rubbed his hands together for warmth.  “You trying to freeze your balls off?” He asked with a chuckle, his eyes leaving Jaime to settle on the uneaten meal on the table.  Jaime felt a inkling of shame when the large wildling returned his quizzical eyes to him.  

He dismissed the feeling instantly, looking at the man with detached amusement.  “So you're what constitutes a guard around here, huh?"

Voice heavy with sarcasm, the wildling didn’t miss a beat before retorting, “Aye and you're some kinda dangerous prisoner.”  The wildling shook his head, humor in his eyes.  Jaime felt himself grit his teeth as the redhead brayed, “I'm surprised Snow bothered to ask me to guard ya.  My daughter coulda done it, and she’s still a child.”

“Your daughter?” Jaime replied without any thought but that to strike back, “Is she as ugly as you?”  He realized as soon as the words left his mouth that he was far too weak to come to blows with the wildling, who clearly had no qualms about harming those who insulted his family. The two men stared at each other, tension mounting with each passing second.  Despite his attempts to ignore it, Jaime felt the pounding of his pulse in his ears.  

 _Wildlings ate the people they killed, didn’t they?_ he found himself absently thinking.

But then that obnoxious laugh erupted from the wildling’s bearded mouth as he threw his head back and smacked his knee with mirth.  Jaime just stared, stunned.  The man was insane.  Completely insane.

“Nah, she’s uglier,” the wildling chortled after his laughter had calmed somewhat, “but she sure ain’t stupid enough to end up the prisoner of an enemy….”  He took a breath then, starring Jaime down, a challenge in his eyes, as he added,  “...or fuck her brother.”

Jaime returned the stare with a bored look of his own, unwilling to let his irritation show on his face, despite the heat of his anger boiling inside of him.  Who the hell did this man think he was, speaking to him that way?  Jaime was almost impressed with the wildling’s gall, until he reminded himself that this was a fucking savage and he likely possessed as much sense as he did hygiene.

Maintaining his aloof appearance, Jaime muttered, “Are we going to exchange tired insults all day, wildling, or can we get on with this?”

The redhead grinned triumphantly, before tossing a heavy cloak that he’d been holding over his arm to Jaime.  He managed to catch it, just barely, in his left hand.   “Put this on, “ the wildling ordered, “With the hood up.  Snow doesn’t you dying of cold.. or anyone seeing that pretty face of yours.”

Jaime glowered at the man, who just smirked back, before attempting to pull the cloak over his shoulders and shove his arms into the thick sleeves.  It wasn’t easy with only one hand, but there was no way in all of the seven hells that he was going to ask for help.  To his credit, the wildling waited patiently, not uttering a word, as Jaime wiggled into the winter garment.  Once he was snug in the warm cloak, the wildling nodded and turned back towards the door, leading the way out into the hallway.  Despite the fact that Jaime knew the time outside his prison would be fleeting, only a tiny taste of freedom,  he felt a rush of gaiety nonetheless.  The sight of the guards, one with a bloody lip, another clutching his side, and the other two looking incensed, only added to his growing zeal.

“Don’t mind the guards,” the wildling boasted, striding past them without a hint of hesitation. “They just needed a little lesson in manners.” Jaime couldn’t repress the grin that came to his lips, though he did manage to squelch the laughter bubbling with him at the sight of the guards’ dour looks.  He hadn’t had the energy to make them shut their mouths when they had insulted Brienne, but they had gotten their comeuppance regardless.  Maybe the wildling wasn’t the absolute worst after all.

“Hey!” one of the guards called just before they reached the steps.  The wildling turned back slowly and glared at the guard that had spoken. Jaime stepped to the side, not wanting to be caught between the two men, and simply watched.  “You need to take these, uh, Tormund,” the young guard continued, his voice losing its confidence as he held out pair of shackles.  

Tormund.  So that was his name.

The joy Jaime had felt upon leaving his room quickly dissipated at the thought of having to be confined to chains.  He wondered if he was even strong enough to drag them around without needed to rest every damn minute.  Luckily, Tormund looked as unimpressed as he felt.

“Chains?  Are you fucking kidding me?” he growled.  “You think this bloke is gonna try to run away?  In this weather? Where the fuck is he gonna go?” Tormund rolled his eyes at the guard and turned to Jaime.  “Hey, sisterfucker, you gonna try to run away and freeze your cock off?”

“Um… no,” Jaime mumbled, shaking his head.  

“There. Nothing to worry about,” Tormund barked at the guards, turning back to the stairs.  Jaime hesitated only a moment, glancing at the bewildered men, before quickly following the crazy wildling down the stairs.  He certainly lacked any semblance of decorum, but at least it seemed to be working in Jaime’s favor.  What kind of castle was Jon running, if the wildlings could run amok like this?  It wouldn’t be long before there was a full mutiny, Jaime speculated, unless of course, it was only _his_ presence that was causing such discord.  If that was true, it wouldn’t be long before there were calls for his execution, if that wasn’t happening already...  

Lost in his thoughts, Jaime was barely paying attention when he felt his right leg give out beneath the weight of him. Terrified, he was pitched forward, the steep stone steps rushing up towards him… until a large hand sprang into view, seizing the collar of his cloak, and preventing him from tumbling head over arse down the stairs.

“Whoa, there,” Tormund said, steading Jaime with both his hands on his shoulders now.  Jaime’s pulse was pounding, legs shaking, as he gripped the wildling’s arms to try to regain some sense of stability.  It was ridiculously embarrassing how weak he was, how being bedridden for days had left him wobbly and uncertain, like a newly-birthed foal.  He was a fucking fool for refusing to eat his last meal as well. What was he trying to prove, anyhow?

“Just take it easy.  We ain’t in no rush,” Tormund added.  Strangely, there was no scorn in his voice.  Jaime didn’t say a word, focused on trying to calm his panicked breath and regain his strength so he could rid himself of the wildling’s support.

“I ‘member when I was just lad, maybe ten and two, I got an arrow in the thigh during a raid.  Barely missed my balls!” Tormund snorted.  “I could hardly walk, definitely couldn’t help carry the supplies we’d stolen back to the village.”  

 _Damn this wildling talks a lot_ , Jaime grumbled to himself, slowly testing his strength.

“My father left me in a cave, with just enough food to last until I got better… or succumbed to the wound,” Tormund continued with the shake of his head, a resentful look on his face.  

“He left you?” Jaime asked, mildly interested, and finally realizing that Tormund was telling his little story to try to distract him from his own fragility. He ought to have been grateful, but instead he was reminded of his own father.   Jaime had been eleven when Tywin had sent him, alone, to Crakehall to squire for Lord Sumner.  It wasn’t a pleasant memory.

“Aye, he was a cruel bastard,” Tormund chuckled.   “But I made it.  Barely.  Took me weeks before I caught up with our village.  And another month before the limp finally went away.”

“And your point?” Jaime muttered, irritated.  “Are you trying to tell me to be strong? Patient?”

Tormund grinned, “I ain’t telling you shit.  But I ain’t holding you up anymore either.”  Jaime looked down, surprised to see the wildling’s hands were no longer bracing his shoulders.  He was baring his own weight again.  When the hell had that happened? When he raised his eyes back up, the smile had only spread beneath the wildling’s red beard.

“Come on!” Tormund exclaimed, before turning and starting down the stairs again.  Jaime took a breath, and then found himself falling in step behind the boorish man, this time keeping close attention to each placement of his feet.  He wasn’t going to make a fool of himself again.


	46. chapter forty-six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fucking hells,” Jaime sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things aren't so nice this chapter... I hope you all don't hate where this is going! BLERG!
> 
> So many thanks to WriterChick for editing and all her wonderful support. Check out her Sansa/Petyr series [The Baelishes](http://archiveofourown.org/series/567308)!

The air outside the castle was frigid.  It was the kind of cold that made it hard to breath, turning ears, cheeks and noses instantly red.  Jaime instinctively curled in on himself, tugging the heavy cloak tighter around him and hunching over as he buried his fingers in the thick fabric.

Tormund didn’t seem to notice the weather, striding out into the snowy courtyard without so much as a shiver.  Jaime grumbled curses to himself and hurried to follow the brute.  When he had negotiated for time out of his room, Jaime hadn’t anticipated the absolute freezing temperatures that would be greeting him outside.  At least he had made it to Winterfell before the cold really set in.  He doubted he would have survived the journey if the winter storms had hit a week earlier.

“Where are we going?” Jaime demanded through chattering teeth as he caught up with Tormund.

The wildling gestured across the icey courtyard, but didn’t slow his pace.  “The Godswood.”

“The Godswood?  Why?” Jaime grumbled, unable to fathom why his jailer would be taking him there of all places.  He would undoubtedly freeze in the forest.

“Cause hardly anyone goes there,” Tormund said, flashing Jaime a wide grin “...so you won’t be able to cause any problems.”

“Problems?” Jaime snapped, shaking his head in frustration.  “It’ll be your problem if this cold makes me sick again.  I’m no use to Snow dead.”  

His words caused Tormund to pause.  He turned around to face Jaime, who was surprised by the indignation in the wildling’s eyes.  “King Snow,” Tormund corrected with a growl.  “It’s King Snow to you.”

Really? The gall of this man. Jaime fought the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he retorted, “I thought you wildlings didn’t believe in kings.”

“We believe in him,” Tormund barked.  “Now move.”

Both men silently trudged across the snowy castle grounds, Tormund in the lead.

All Jaime could think was how the Godswood was no good.  How would he manage to run into Brienne in the middle a forest? This whole excursion outside would be pointless if he couldn’t change Tormund’s mind.  He racked his brain for a way to get on his good side.

“Surely we could visit a warmer part of the castle? The great hall? The kitchens? I don’t even care where,” Jaime began.  The wildling kept walking, unaffected by Jaime’s plea. "Oh come on now, I've been locked in a room… I haven’t seen a woman in ages.  Help me out.”  

Tormund snorted. “You’ll survive.”

“Oh, that’s easy for you to say.  I heard you last night.  ALL NIGHT.”  Jaime made sure his voice sounded utterly awed.  His flattery was met with a smug smile from the wildling. _Perfect_. Jaime continued, “The whole castle heard you driving your wildling woman out of her head. I have to admit, it was impressive.”

Tormund laughed then, a proud hearty sound, before proclaiming, “She ain’t one of the freefolk.  She’s one of your kind.”

Jaime was momentarily stunned.  The woman he heard was a Westerosi? How in the hell had Tormund managed that?  The wildling certainly seemed mighty proud, considering he made it a point to reveal that little tidbit of information.  

Jaime didn’t have to fake how impressed he was when he spoke again, “Well damn, you must have some serious skills to get a northerner in bed. And make her sound like that.”  Tormund’s smirk only grew, though he didn’t volunteer any further information. Was the wildling not a braggart?  He certainly seemed like one.  Why was he being so coy?

Jaime pressed, “So, how’d you do it?  Is she a chambermaid?  Tavern wench?  What?”

Tormund shook his head, that cocky look never faltering from his bearded face.  “Nah.  She’s one of you.”

Jaime was confused,  “One of me?”

Tormund nodded, “Aye.  She’s a highborn.  A real lady.”  Jaime couldn’t stop the booming snicker from bursting out of his lips. A noblewoman? That was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard.  The wildling had a bizarre sense of humor.

“That’s hilarious,” Jaime laughed, “You really had me going there for a minute.”

Tormund just shrugged, looking unbothered by Jaime’s skepticism. “It’s the truth.  She’s the most perfect woman that's ever existed.”  The earnestness on the wildling’s face caused Jaime to pause.  Wait, no, this couldn’t be real.  He wasn’t telling the truth. Was he?

Tormund did chuckle then, “What’s bloody hilarious is that she loves me back.  Don’t make no fucking sense.” He turned away then, for they had reached the entrance to the Godswood.

Jaime barely noticed, still flabbergasted over the very real possibility that the wildling was being honest about having a supposedly civilized lady in his bedchamber.  He heard the scrap of metal as Tormund opened gate and then numbly followed the wildling inside the walled forest. So much for his plan to get Tormund to change his mind about where to go. Instead, Jaime was struggling to comes to terms with the fact that Tormund was either the best liar he’d ever met, and that was saying a lot considering Jaime's predilection for telling lies himself, or Tormund was speaking the gods damn truth.  Neither option made a lick of sense.

The wildling started off down the forest path, taking a few steps in the fluffy snow, before Jaime hurried to stand in front of him and block his way. He had far too many questions that needed prompt answers to let him just stroll away.  

“Alright, who is it then? Who’s the lady you’ve tricked into your bed?” Jaime questioned, meeting the wildling’s eyes with a curious glare.  Maybe it was a Mormont? They'd always been a odd family: feral, ruled by women.  He didn’t know why he was so invested, but suddenly it seemed absolutely necessary to know.  How had this unwashed, barbaric cannibal seduced a lady when Jaime couldn’t even get Brienne to look at him without grimacing?   

Tormund grinned back, unfazed by Jaime's fervor. “Oh, so you believe me now, huh?”  He laughed again, that stupid bleating noise that Jaime was growing to despise.  Stepping around him, Tormund snickered, “Why are you so curious?  You need some love advice?”  

Jaime frowned, feeling an itchy sensation in his hand at the self-satisfied look on the ginger’s face. Despite his admittedly lackluster attempts to gain the upper hand in their conversation, Jaime couldn’t seem to outmaneuver Tormund.  He was just a wildling after all! What he _really_ needed right now was for Tormund to stop being so fucking irritating.  

“Oh, I see how it is,” Jaime heckled, stomping down the snowy path, Tormund walking alongside him. “You boast about this elusive northern lady, hinting at whom she may be, but when it comes to putting your money where your mouth is, suddenly you’ve got nothing to say.”  Jaime scoffed, not bothering to hide his annoyance anymore.  Tormund was silent for a long moment, the only sound in the snowy forest was the crunch of their footsteps as they made their way deeper into the thicket.

Finally, just when Jaime was feeling a smidgen of triumph, Tormund asked, clearly befuddled, “Why would I put money in my mouth?”

“Fucking hells,” Jaime sighed.  He tugged the hood of his cloak tighter around his face, unsure if the utter defeat he felt was because of the cold or because his “guard” was a complete moron.  Regardless, Jaime felt weak in the merciless winter temperature and was struggling to keep up with Tormund.

Luckily, Jaime didn’t have to voice his fragility, for the wildling appeared to notice that their frigid trek was becoming a burden for him.  Slowing his pace, Tormund murmured, “There’s a hot spring near the heart tree, just up ahead.  We can rest there, where it’s warm.”  

Jaime nodded in reply, mildly relieved to hear he would not, in fact, be freezing to death.  He searched the forest for the bright red leaves of the weirwood tree as they walked in silence.  The wildling’s kindness was confounding, but Jaime refused to dwell on it too much or, gods forbid, let himself feel grateful.

After a few minutes, Jaime’s impatience returned and he grumbled, “So you’re really not going to tell me who your lady is?”

Tormund didn’t seem to be paying him much attention.  He was scanning the trees, a intense look in his eyes as he continued forward cautiously. Jaime raised an eyebrow when Tormund’s hand moved to the hilt of the sword at his side.  Were they in danger?  Jaime glanced around, somewhat interested, but more amused that he lacked such a sense of caution.  What was the worst that could happen?  An ambush?  A sword in the chest would certainly be quicker than what he was currently doing: freezing his balls off, as Tormund had so eloquently phrased it. After taking several more steps forward, Jaime in tow, the wildling appeared to relax, letting his hand fall from his sword.  Whatever danger Tormund thought he had sensed, he was clearly mistaken.  

Jaime took the opportunity to ask again, “Come on, give me a name.”

“Sansa,” Tormund breathed, still staring off into the trees.

“Seven hells,” Jaime sputtered, eyes wide and his mouth falling open in complete shock.  “You and Sansa? That’s- that’s completely insane.”  He shook his head in absolute disbelief, “How-?  How in the hells?”

Tormund turned around to face him, sending Jaime a look that expressed just how big of an idiot he thought he was.  “No,” the wildling growled, pointing through the trees and explaining in a voice heavy with exasperation, “The Stark lass is here.”  

“Oh,” Jaime muttered, feeling his cheeks warm, as his eyes followed Tormund’s finger through the trees.  He was greeted to the sight of the girl sitting near the base of the heart tree, her bright hair matching it’s vibrant leaves, her skin as pale as the bark. Truthfully, she was hardly a girl anymore.  He could tell that, even from their distance.

If Sansa was here, that surely meant…  Jaime scoured the forest, his pulse beginning to pound in anticipation of what he was so desperately hoping to find.

And find her he did.

Brienne was standing several feet from her lady, her hand on Oathkeeper, the armor he had gifted her covered by a cloak of thick brown fur. She was here. No more than a hundred paces from him.  She was really here!  Why did it feel like it'd been several tortuous days since he’d last seen her?  Eager to speak to her, and hopefully make amends for the hurt he had caused her, Jaime wasted no time striding through the trees. He was stopped, however, dead in his tracks, by Tormund’s hand firm on his chest.

“Where do you think you’re going?” the wildling grunted, a shrewd look in his eyes.  Jaime returned the stare with a determined look of his own.

Through clenched teeth, he retorted, “To the weirwood tree.  To rest and get warm.”

Tormund shook his head, “No.  We’re not gonna bother them.”

 _This self-important savage presumes to limit me?!_ he thought _._   Jaime was nearly shaking with barely restrained fury when he seethed, “I’m tired and I’m cold.  I need to talk to Lady Brienne.  Move aside.”

Tormund didn’t budge, nor did he seemed bothered in the slightest with Jaime’s anger.  If anything, he only seemed curious, “Why do you need to talk to her?”

“It’s none of your concern,” Jaime snapped.  

Tormund just blinked at him. “Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug, using the hand on Jaime's chest to force him back the way they came.  

Jaime was far too weak to fight him and felt himself growing desperate as he lost sight of Brienne in the trees.  “Fine!” he blurted.  “I’ll tell you!” Tormund stopped pushing and stared at him, waiting for his confession.

“I upset her, alright?” Jaime muttered. “She came to see me this morning and I…” he paused, taking a breath, unwilling to share more than he absolutely had to.  “I upset her.  I just want to apologize.  If I don’t do it now, I might not get another chance.”  He couldn’t risk losing this opportunity.

Tormund narrowed his eyes, standing as still as stone in Jaime's path.  “What did you do?”  

Jaime sighed with defeat, feeling sick with shame, as he dropped his eyes to the snowy ground.  He ought to lie.  Lying would be the smart thing to do.  Instead, the truth came stammering out of him. “I don’t know… I told a crass joke.  I surprised her… with an unwelcome kiss.”  

Tormund’s hand on his chest curled into a fist in the fabric of his cloak as the wildling jerked him forward and off balance.  Jaime’s eyes flew up to meet Tormund’s wild ones.

“You kissed her?  Without her permission?” Tormund fumed, face turning red, much to Jaime’s utter bewilderment.  “What the fuck is wrong with you?"

“I-” he stuttered, not knowing what to say.  Wildlings kidnapped women and raped them.  One kiss was nothing compared to that.  The wildling’s judgment was completely inconsequential!  Despite knowing it was futile, Jaime wrestled with Tormund’s hand, trying to free himself from the brute’s grasp.  Tormund didn’t even seem to notice,  turning back to the weirwood tree and stomping toward it, roughly dragging Jaime along behind him.

“Damn right you’re going to apologize to her,” Tormund roared.  “You’re gonna fucking grovel at her feet like the piece of shit you are!  Fucking pretty boy, thinking you own the world and can take whatever you want!”

Jaime was too shocked by Tormund’s unhinged reaction, and the fact that he was now being yanked through the woods by a mad man, to do much but try to refrain from stumbling and falling flat on his face. It was revolting that he was completely at Tormund’s mercy, but it was entirely his fault for not using better discretion with his honesty.   Although, Jaime couldn't possibly have predicted the wildling’s insane reaction.

“She’ll probably forgive you too!” Tormund continued, his voice never losing it’s fury.  “Cause she’s such a good person.”

Jaime’s neck was aching from the constant pressure of being pulled forward, the pain increasing when Tormund turned back around and wrenched him forward again.  “But _I’m_ not a good person, you understand? I'll beat you to a bloody pulp just for the fun of it!” Tormund snarled, his face inches from Jaime’s, the smell of ale on his hot breath causing Jaime to grimace.  “I won’t be so forgiving if you dare touch her, or any other lady in Winterfell _again._   Am I making myself clear, sisterfucker?”

“Quite clear,” Jaime choked, his voice sounding pinched from the constant pressure on his windpipe. He probably would have said anything in that moment to get the beast’s hands off him.

“Good,” Tormund barked, letting go of Jaime with a rough shove.  Jaime stumbled away, glaring at the wildling with poison in his eyes.  Tormund was going to pay for this.  As soon as he was strong enough, he was going to make the wildling regret ever daring to lay a filthy hand on him.   

“Here’s what’s gonna happen, you miserable cunt,” Tormund declared.  “I’m gonna talk to Brienne first and find out if she actually feels like listening to your pathetic apology.  You are gonna stay at the other end of that fucking pond unless I say you can move. You got it?”

“Fine,” Jaime said, knowing there was no point in arguing.  It was impossible to reason with a lunatic. And he was almost certain that Brienne would agree to speak to him.  He couldn’t imagine her turning him away, even if she was still hurt and angry with him. Tormund seemed satisfied with Jaime’s response and waved his hand for Jaime to start walking.  He followed after the wildling, willing his pulse to slow and the adrenaline coursing through his veins to subside.

They emerged from the trees into a small clearing, the pond before them and the weirwood tree beyond that.  Steam rose from the dark water, making the whole forest seem hazy.  Jaime was eager for the warmth the underground hot spring was sure to provide and wasted no time reaching the pond’s edge.

“Stay,” Tormund commanded, before continuing around the pond towards the two ladies.  Jaime didn’t argue, but did as he was told, despite feeling incensed at being treated like a trained dog.  He could have followed Tormund. But his pride was already wounded enough.  Jaime didn’t think he could withstand being treated with such disrespect in front of Brienne.  It would only intensify his humiliation.

Instead, he waited, watching, worried that Tormund would be as vulgar with Brienne as he was with him. How terrible it must be for her, being forced to interact with the cretin on a regular basis. He knew, however, that Brienne had a low tolerance for indecency and could easily defend herself should the need arise.  Holding his hands out to feel the heat of the steaming hot spring, Jaime let himself indulge in the fantasy of Brienne absolutely destroying Tormund with her superior sword skills. That would surely remove the smug smile from the wildling’s face.  Jaime began to relax, no longer feeling so chilled by the weather or agitated by his recent experiences, thoroughly entertained by imagining how Brienne would teach Tormund a much needed lesson in manners.  

He was yanked from his daydream, however, by the most inconceivable sound.

Laughter.  A woman’s laughter.

Seeking the source of the joyful sound, Jaime scanned the forest before him.  He was aghast to discover that the delightful noise was coming from Brienne herself and the cause of such gaiety appeared to be Tormund.  How was that even possible?  She didn’t appear to be faking it either, a uninhibited grin on her rosey face.

Jaime had never seen her smile like that, nor heard her lovely laugh before.  And instead of it bringing him joy, he was overcome with a sickening feeling of envy and sudden yearning to do whatever he could to make Tormund suffer.


	47. chapter forty-seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How? How could you…?” she gasped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses for talking so long to post. My apologies!
> 
> A huge, ecstatic thank you to Spattergroit, my absolutely awesome new editor. Check out her incredible [Tormund and Brienne fics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spattergroit/pseuds/spattergroit/works)!

Tormund stomped around the steaming pond, his angry footsteps leaving deep indents in the snowy ground.  His hands were curled in tight balls, his jaw aching from words he had not said. 

He had tried to be calm, kind even, and give the Southern cunt the benefit of the doubt.   He knew that’s what Brienne would have wanted. But it was impossible. The man was a selfish prick who deserved nothing but contempt.  And Tormund deserved a chest of gold for not immediately lopping off his head with a razor-sharp sword.

Tormund was vibrating with fury when he came upon the weirwood tree.  Brienne turned towards him as he neared, her eyes meeting his and a warm smile spreading on her rosy lips at the sight of him.  She was like a cool burst of water, instantly dousing his fiery temper. He felt himself soften, a breath escaping his lips with a lovesick sigh.  Tormund beamed at her, helpless against her smile. There was too much love overflowing from her eyes to respond in any other way.

And she was wearing furs.  Tormund had never seen her in furs before.  She looked bloody marvelous with the thick fox pelt around her shoulders.  Gods damn he was so lucky he was hers.

“How did you find me?” Brienne asked, a playful lilt to her voice.  She stepped closer and Tormund was suddenly aware of his heart thudding in his chest.

“I ask myself that everyday,” he gushed, grinning from ear to ear, his eyes glued to hers.  “You’re like somethin’ outta a dream.”

His words were met by her easy laugh, even as she shook her head in exasperation.

“You’re ridiculous,” she scolded.  But he knew she was secretly pleased, the faint pink on her cheeks revealing her bashfulness at his compliment.  His smile only grew.

“I mean, how did you find me here?” she clarified.

“Chance,” he replied.  “It was Jon’s idea. He figured no one else would be here, so we’d be safe.”

Brienne’s brow furrowed with confusion. “Safe?”  

“Aye,” Tormund nodded, not bothering to hide his displeasure as he gestured over his shoulder, pointing his thumb in the direction of where he had left the son of a bitch on the other side of the misty pond.

“There wasn’t supposed to be anyone around to notice the prisoner,” he added. Her eyes followed his thumb, a frown pulling on the corners of her mouth.  Tormund knew it was selfish, but he relished that frown. He was relieved that the presence of her friend seemed to be bringing Brienne about as much joy as it did him.

Brienne returned her gaze to Tormund.  “Same reason we’re here,” she replied, the levity gone from her voice, much to his disappointment.  She was all business as she continued, “Lady Sansa wanted respite from the demands of being Lady of Winterfell, if only for a moment.  It’s no easy task…” Her voice trailed off as Brienne once again looked over Tormund’s shoulder, no doubt staring at her friend. Tormund felt himself bristle with annoyance.

“Did you tell him about us?” Brienne demanded abruptly, her brow furrowed with apprehension.  He shook his head no.

“Really?” she repeated, her voice softening.

“I didn’t think it was my place to,” he admitted with a shrug.  She was speechless, her mouth falling open.

“Ah come on now!” Tormund griped.  “I ain’t that much of a blabber mouth!”  He grinned at her, reveling in the chance to make their conversation one of good humor again.

“I’m just impressed, is all,” Brienne smiled, before growing sincere.  “I know you, Tormund. I know you wanted to tell him.” He nodded, gazing up at her.  “But you didn’t… for me.” She was amazed, as if suddenly understanding the lengths he would go to make her happy.  Was it really that surprising that he would do anything for her?

“I love you,” he stated, matter-of-factly, “and you love me.”  Tormund smirked, “So fuck this nonsense, let me go tell him!” He waggled his eyebrows at her and she laughed again.  “I have a better idea. Let me kiss you, right here, right now, in front of him. Then we won’t have to say a gods damn word!” He made a kissy face at her and sidled closer. “It’s been hours since I’ve tasted those lips of yours,” he cooed.

Her hand firm on his chest stopped him from coming any closer.  “Tormund,” she murmured, shaking her head at him despite the eagerness blatant on her flushed face.  “That would be cruel.”

“Maybe he deserves a little cruelty,” Tormund blurted, an edge to his voice. “He told me what he did to ya.”

“And he’s still standing?”  Brienne’s perfect blue eyes were wide as she searched his face.

“He owes you an apology first.  Then I’ll kill him,” Tormund growled, only half-joking.  “He’s waiting to say he’s sorry.”

Brienne began chewing on her bottom lip, her eyes darting over his shoulder again.  He had come to know her well enough to recognize when her mind was elsewhere. Tormund waited, fighting with himself to be patient, for her to return from being lost in her own thoughts.

“There is good in him. I've seen it… or at least there used to be,” she admitted after a long moment.  The muscle in Tormund’s jaw began to ache from clenching it. “I don’t know what’s happened to him,” Brienne muttered.

The worry on her face was almost too much for Tormund to bear.  He scowled, his temper beginning to rekindle. How could she still care for him?  Why wasn’t she furious at what he had done? His face felt hot as he struggled to find the words to express his growing anger.

Brienne didn't seem to notice, her long fingers fiddling with the leather fastenings that held the fur cloak around her shoulders.  “It wasn’t just the kiss,” she admitted, her eyes lowered. Her voice was so muted, he barely heard what she said. “He called me a whore.”  

“WHAT?!?” Tormund snarled, immediately enraged.  He had made a mistake. He should have beaten the cunt to a bloody pulp.  Why was he trying so hard to treat the prick how Brienne would have wanted, when the only thing the fucker was doing was hurting her?  

“He didn’t know it was me,” she added quickly, her voice still faint as she visibly struggled to continue.  “He just made a joke… about the wildling and his whore.” Brienne raised a hand to her cheek to quickly wipe a tear away.  Oh fuck.

“Brienne, you are not a-”

She cut him off, “He heard us, Tormund! The whole castle heard us!”  Her voice was strained, tears brimming in her eyes. She pressed a hand to her mouth to silence herself.  Tormund was baffled by the intense anguish on her face.

“Of course they heard us,” he remarked, not understanding what that had to do with her grief.  “I wanted them too.” Brienne took a step back, as if his words had physically harmed her. His confusion only grew.  

“How?  How could you…?” she gasped.  Tormund felt a spark of panic in his gut.  He had done something wrong. He had hurt her.

“I don’t understand,” he confessed, stepping closer to her.  It was a point of pride to make a women who let you into her bed moan as loudly as possible.  What kind of man would he be if he hadn’t tried to do that?

“Those sounds I make… The way I look when I’m…”  Brienne shook her head, unable to finish the thought.  Her face was stained red as she dropped her eyes to the ground.

“It’s for you, Tormund. Only you,” she whispered.

Only for him…

Tormund was speechless. But he was, at last, beginning to understand.  He had fucked up. Her beautiful moans were something precious, he knew that, but he had squandered them by not treating them as such. She was embarrassed.  Not of him, he knew that too, but that the whole castle had heard something that was meant only for him. Shit. Why had he cared so much that others heard? What was he trying to prove? He was such a fool.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, gazing at her flushed face and hoping she would raise her eyes to meet his again. “It's different… with the freefolk…” Tormund took a breath, not knowing how explain that there was never such shame or embarrassment among his people. Instead, he confessed something entirely more important. “I never meant to hurt you, Brienne.”

“I know,” she breathed, raising her worried eyes to look into his. There was no anger on her face.  Instead, they stared at each other, wordlessly communicating something stronger than words could ever convey: his regret, her compassion, their mutual love, stubborn and unrelenting, engulfing them both.   

“I forgive you,” Brienne said eventually.  She stepped closer, reaching out a hand to curl it into the furs at his chest.  He was grateful beyond words that Brienne understood he would never ever cause her pain maliciously, only by his thick-headedness.  And that she was so willing to forgive him. 

“Sometimes… I wish I could be more like you,” Brienne admitted in a soft voice. “Not caring so much what people think…”

Tormund shook his head. “But I  _ do _ care.  I wanted everyone to know you’d let me in your bed,” he admitted sheepishly. He moved his hand up to cover hers, cherishing her touch.  Her skin felt cold beneath his palm and he wished he could do more to warm her up. “I didn't think about what you’d want, only that I wanted to brag.”

She scoffed at that.  “I’m nothing to brag about.”

“Yes you fucking are,” Tormund growled.  Brienne opened her mouth to protest, but quickly shut it. She must have seen the fire in his eyes and realized that this was not an argument she was going to win.  Satisfied with his success, Tormund turned his focus to attempting to cheer her up.

“I hope you realize I'm never going to stop,” he teased.

A flicker of surprise passed over her face. “What?”

“I've never going to stop making you moan,” he added with a salacious smirk. “We’ll just have to think of some way to quiet that mouth of yours.” Tormund winked, pulling her hand from his chest and pressing his lips to the back of it.

Brienne chuckled at him and, once again, the only way he could respond to her loveliness was by grinning back at her.  Fucking hells, she was captivating. He couldn’t imagine there’d ever come a time when he’d be bored of seeing her laugh.

“Will you wear that?  Tonight?” Tormund asked eagerly, his eyes hungry as he slid them over her enticing frame.  Her hand remained snug in his, much to his satisfaction.

“You want me to wear my armor?” Brienne asked, her eyebrow raising in skepticism.  “I don’t think that would work…”

“No, you beautiful fool, I meant the furs,” he replied.  Tormund did let go of her hand then, only to reach up and run his fingers through the fur at her collar.  “Just the furs,” he added, his voice lowering with lust as he imagined coming to her room and finding her in just the cloak.  One long, bare leg would peek out from the heavy fabric as she’d beckon him closer with the curl of her finger. He’d stumble forward, lost in her dazzling eyes…

His unfettered desire must have been been blatant on his face, either that or she was imagining something equally titillating, for Brienne was gazing back at him, her lips slightly parted, breath quick, cheeks pink.

“Tormund,” she purred.  He was all he could to not lunge for her right there and cover her lips with his own.  Instead, he waited, with bated breath, for her to continue.

“I..” she began, a tiny smile curling on her lips.  Dear gods, he hoped she was going to try to say something lewd again.  Her ridiculous attempt at a naughty joke this morning had thoroughly amused him.  All day, he had chuckled to himself everytime he thought about it, and grinned when he remembered how reluctant she’d been to let him leave her bed.  Tormund knew whatever she said next would leave him roaring with laughter or light-headed from the rush of blood south. Likely both.

Unfortunately, the crunch of snow behind him caused Brienne to freeze, her words stuck in her open mouth.  Like a rabbit caught in a snare, a look of dread descended onto her face as she stared over his shoulder. Tormund knew who it was without looking, instantly livid that the piece of shit had interrupted them.  Truth be told, he had forgotten about the cunt and even the Stark lass, so beguiled by Brienne that everything else had disappeared into the background.

Brienne seemed equally startled, the sudden tension in her stance obvious to him.  She was as annoyed as he was. Tormund gritted his teeth, his face immediately hot, as his hand moved to grip the hilt of his sword.  

The sound of footsteps grew louder behind him, though neither Tormund nor Brienne had moved.  She met his gaze and shook her head in silent disapproval.

Fucking hells.  

He dropped his hand from the sword and stepped aside.  


	48. chapter forty-eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It ain’t my fault he’s a cockless shit weasel,” he added with a smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My new Tormund and Brienne dolls 100% helped me finish this chapter. Lolz for dayz!  
> 

If it was possible to eviscerate someone with merely one scathing glare, then the majority of Tormund’s problems would have been solved when he turned his eyes toward the golden-haired maggot worming his way toward them. The Lannister didn’t seem to notice the fury simmering on Tormund’s face, for his focus was on Brienne and Brienne alone. He looked nervous though, hesitant, his steps unsure and his face pinched. He was apparently intelligent enough to realize that his choice to interrupt them was unwise, but he was too impatient to decide on another, more sensible, course of action. Fucking jackass.  
  
Tormund looked from Jaime to Brienne, curious to see her response upon the arrival of the so-called knight. She looked just as uneasy, her shoulders stiff with tension, the deep crease appearing between her eyebrows. Her blue eyes were piercing and, for once, Tormund was relieved he wasn’t the object of her gaze.  
  
Neither one of them spoke. They just stared stiffly at each other; the silence of the moment dragging on into complete ridiculousness.  
  
Never a fan of restraint, Tormund cleared his throat and growled, “I told you to wait.”  
  
Clenching this jaw, Jaime glared back at Tormund. “I did wait.”  
  
Jaime turned to Brienne, his face visibly softening, as he added, “I wanted to make sure you were alright. I wasn’t sure what was going on…”  His voice drifted off - a look of perplexity clouding his features. The bastard was about as sharp as a smithy’s hammer.  
  
“Aye. You ain’t got no bloody idea what’s happening!” Tormund barked, feeling a sudden need to get the cunt’s attention off of Brienne. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a real pain in the ass?”  
  
“Anyone ever tell you ‘tis better to be silent and thought a fool than open your mouth and remove all doubt?” Jaime retorted.  
  
“I ain’t the fool that’s gonna spend the rest of my life rotting away in a tower ‘cause I was too fucking dumb to avoid being captured!”  
  
“Listen here, you petulant wildling!” Jaime snapped, his lone hand curling into a fist. Tormund was ready for whatever furious tirade he was about to release, eager even, hoping what was said would lead to blows.  
  
Brienne’s sharp voice startled both men. “His name is Tormund,” she scolded, her eyes on Jaime. “Not wildling.”  
  
“Uh…” was all Jaime could muster in response.

Tormund was surprised by the fervor in which Brienne defended him, a warm feeling of gratitude spreading over him and leading to a cocky grin on his face. It did not, however, remain there.  
  
“And you,” Brienne said, turning her irritation to Tormund. “Trying to pick a fight with a man who nearly died from fever two days ago? Are you proud of yourself?”  
  
_Shit._  
  
“I ain’t sorry for treating him exactly how he deserves to be treated,” Tormund said, refusing to succumb to her chastisement. He folded his arms over his chest in a childish display of stubbornness as he stared down his lover.  Brienne shook her head, sighing with exasperation.  
  
“You are proud of yourself then,” she remarked.  
  
Tormund said nothing. This wasn’t about pride. This was about who was a gods damn asshole. He was quickly becoming just as irritated with her for playing peacekeeper. Jaime did not deserve one ounce of her compassion. How could she go from crying over how Jaime treated her one moment to protecting him the next?    
  
Tormund drew a forceful breath in through his nose and tried to calm the anger bubbling inside of him. Despite himself, he knew that he did not want to argue with Brienne, not about Jaime or anything else.  
  
“I ain’t gonna touch him. I promised Snow I’d keep him in one piece,” Tormund grunted in an attempt to placate her. “It ain’t my fault he’s a cockless shit weasel,” he added with a smirk.  
  
Tormund swore he saw the tiniest hint of a grin tug on the corner of Brienne’s mouth. Had she realized how ridiculous she was being? Or was she amused by his excellent choice of insults?  
  
“Maybe you are petulant,” she poked at him, the sudden sparks in her eyes revealing something brewing beneath her annoyance.  
  
“Maybe!” he blurted, not knowing in the slightest what the word meant. No matter, his ignorance had never stopped him before. And he couldn’t hide from the challenge in her eyes. Brienne was goading him on purpose. Fucking hells she was perfect. “Or maybe I just think you’re gorgeous when you’re mad,” he blurted.  
  
At his playful comment, Brienne’s eyes widened before she retreated inside herself, a stoniness settling on her features. Fuck. What now?  
  
It was Jaime’s awkward shuffling feet that made him realize his mistake. Brienne was not expecting him to reply to her subtle flirting with a blatant declaration of his attraction to her. And Jaime looked entirely bewildered as if Tormund had just insisted his best mate was a white walker and they liked to frolic through fields of wildflowers together.  
  
“Oh what?  You don’t agree?” Tormund accused, turning on the Lannister. The perplexed look on Jaime’s face morphed into mild concern at Tormund’s sudden aggression.    
  
“Excuse me?” Jaime asked.  
  
“What part of Brienne being gorgeous is so fucking confusing to you?”    
  
“Tormund,” Brienne said, her voice a warning.  
  
“No, no. Let him speak. I want to hear what the sisterfucker has to say,” Tormund pressed, his eyes unflinching. Jaime looked from Tormund to Brienne to Tormund again, clearly at a loss for words.  
  
“I’m only confused,” Jaime spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully, “because I was under the impression that you already had a lady… and now you’re accosting Brienne.”  
  
Wow.  The cunt really was magnificently daft, unable to see what was right in front of his fucking face.  No, it wasn’t that. Jaime refused to see it. The arrogant asshole had literal blinders on, incapable of imagining that Brienne would be with him.  Tormund was too inferior of a man for such an incredible woman to lower herself to him. On another day, Tormund might have agreed with Jaime. He certainly did not deserve Brienne’s love.  But in this moment, he was nothing but furious. And Jaime was nothing but a cocky shit stain of a person.  
  
Unfortunately, Brienne jumped to speak before Tormund could deliver a scathing response. “I believe you wanted to speak with me?” Brienne inquired of Jaime, clearly desperate to change the subject.  There was a moment then in which Tormund glared at Jaime, who glared back with equal resentment.  
  
Eventually, Jaime replied to her, “Yes, I would. AIthough I doubt our conversation will be productive with the present company.”    
  
The Lannister glanced over to him and asked in a smug voice, “Would you mind, _Tormund_ -”.  Jaime overemphasized his name as if making it clear to all present that he was gracious enough to grant Tormund the dignity of his name, “-letting us speak in private?”    
  
Tormund could feel his pulse thundering in his ears, his jaw aching from gritting his teeth with the force of his fury.  Of course he fucking minded! However, he looked to Brienne, willing to stay or go depending on what she wanted. This was her battle after all.  He couldn’t fight it for her, as much as he wanted to.  
  
Their eyes met and he could see the worry there, the stubbornness, the confusion.  She wasn’t sure what she wanted. He had no doubt his own face revealed his tumultuous feelings.  He was letting the Lannister get to him. As much as he trusted Brienne and knew how deeply she cared for him, he nonetheless found himself feeling like he was stuck on a dinghy without oars completely at the mercy of the tide.  
  
Brienne gave him a reassuring look and then nodded, effectively dismissing him so her and Jaime could have their conversation.  
  
Tormund nodded back, accepting her decision, but unable and unwilling to hide his reluctance as he trudged away.  
  
-  
  
Brienne’s eyes followed Tormund as he strode to a cluster of trees three dozen paces or so from them. He, respectfully, moved far enough away to be out of earshot of their conversation, but remained close enough that Brienne felt comforted by his steady presence.  She was riddled with anxiety - almost sick from having to manage the unwieldy egos of both Tormund and Jaime. It was absurd really: the two men posturing over her. Her! How ridiculous. And how ridiculous was she to have indulged Tormund’s flirtatious nature right in front of Jaime! Was she really so smitten with him that even at the most inopportune time, she couldn’t help herself from playfully teasing him?  And somehow, _somehow_ , Jaime had not seemed to have deduced that they were together.  
  
_It’s because he cannot fathom any man would desire me_ , Brienne thought.  Turning back to Jaime, her eyes grazed the strong curve of his jaw and flitted over the frown on his lips, before settling on the sage green of his worried eyes. He was impossibly handsome, in a way that was becoming irritating to Brienne.  
  
“We can speak now,” she said quietly, “What is it that you need to say?”  Without being consciously aware of it, her hand moved to grip Oathkeeper.  
  
Jaime gazed at her, a million questions in his eyes, as he spoke, “I’m sorry. Truly.”

His face was sincere, his remorse etched in the furrow of his brow and the regret in his eyes.  “I could blame the milk of the poppy for acting so recklessly, but the truth of the matter is that I wanted to kiss you… so I did.”  Jaime glanced away and then back to her. Brienne remained silent, listening, attempting to reconcile the notion that Jaime Lannister, the Golden Lion, had somehow been desperately eager to kiss her, Brienne the Beauty.  It was nothing short of ludicrous.  
  
“It was cruel of me to force that on you,” Jaime continued.  “I know you’re a maid… and you deserve to be treated as such. Please find it in your heart to forgive me.”  He was quiet then, unsure, waiting for her response.  
  
A maid, he said.  He still thought she was a maiden. Of course he did. Why would he have reason to think anything else?  Brienne’s stomach churned. She needed to tell him the truth.  
  
“I will not hold it against you,” she replied, finding herself struggling to meet his penetrating gaze. “Though I must say, maiden or not, none desire unsought affection.”  
  
He was surprised by her rebuke, his eyes widening for the briefest moment.  “I did not anticipate you would find my touch so repulsive,” he muttered, shaking his head as if to scold himself.  “I labored under the false assumption that we might share a mutual fondness.” His voice was heavy with melancholy. She had never seen him look so sad.    
  
“Jaime,” she murmured, wanting to erase the pain from his face.  His eyes held hers as she spoke. “Of course I care for you,” she admitted, her cheeks warming with her confession.  “You put yourself in danger to save my life, more than once. I am indebted to you.”  
  
“But?” he added dryly, somehow able to sense the impending caveat.  
  
“But…”  What was she to say?   _But I love another? But you’re too late?   But this has to be some kind of mistake, you don’t really love me, you’re confused…_  
  
Brienne was at a loss for words, just standing there, staring at him.  He was taller than Tormund, his eyes almost perfectly level with hers. Her mind darted, unexpectedly, to thoughts of kissing him again.  Would the experience be pleasant were he not so forceful? What sort of lover might he be? All they had been through together, all they had seen, and survived, and succumbed to; how could their souls not be forever entwined?  But if she were to tell him of Tormund, Brienne feared, she would lose him. He would scorn her in revulsion. She would surrender not only his love but also his friendship. She could not bear the thought, a cold feeling of panic settling in her stomach.  
  
“But nothing, Brienne,” Jaime blurted. He stepped closer to her. “You do love me.  You’re just afraid.”  
  
He must have seen the despair on her face.  She had to speak. She could not let him continue to suffer this fallacy.  
  
“I am,” she whispered, her voice trembling.  “But not of love. I’m afraid of what will happen, what you’ll think of me, if I tell you the truth.”  
  
“The truth?” he repeated, for once his cleverness could not foresee what she was about to say.  
  
“Yes. The truth is that I am in love… but with another.”    
  
Jaime was taken aback, a cruel scoff of doubt escaping his lips.  “Another? Who?”  
  
With a sudden and unexpected sense of assuredness that she rarely felt around Jaime, Brienne declared, “Tormund.”


End file.
